


The Fragile Life of Sherlock S Holmes

by Teaandcakes



Series: Beyond Ourselves [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Discipline, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Violence, Humour, M/M, Military Kink, References to Suicide Attempt, References to past child sexual abuse, Rope Bondage, Whump, bottomlock, mycroft is a legend, with a bit of switchy goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the revelations of Sherlock's traumatic past and recent breakdown, and Johns own personal life imploding (covered in Part 1: the Life and Death of William SS Holmes), John Watson returns home to Baker Street. </p><p>But as the operation to take out Moran gathers pace, they come closer than ever before to losing one another completely. </p><p>This is the story of their survival, and of two damaged people trying to build a relationship, using the single chance they have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning comes to Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> This Fiction is Part 2 of the Beyond Ourselves Series
> 
> You are super recommended to read Part 1: The Life and Death of William SS Holmes', before reading this part, because the events explored in that fic part reach long into this one.
> 
> Please heed the warnings. The fics in this series deal with references to historic child sex abuse and self harm and their impact on the victim, as well as scenes of violence, serious injury, and explicit sex. However, there's quite a bit of broad humour too. And given the backstory of the fic, all sex is very consensual, as John is a Good Man. Doesn't mean it's kink free tho, way haaay! :D
> 
> Note: Mycroft is a legend. He is the real hero of these tales, while still being, well, Mycroft....
> 
> If you enjoy this fic leaving comments or kudos is very welcome. It is amazingly inspiring to receive them!
> 
> There is now likely to be a third part to this epic monster, cos like Jealous John, as I wrote this part the idea for the next keeps saying stuff in my ear!
> 
> Finally, the reference to the M16 head is basically true, I was one of the oblivious undergraduates......:-)))

That first night back in Baker Street passed relatively peacefully. John slept soundly for a few hours, and the rest of the night lay awake but quiet and still, the bed still surrounded by dusty dried out boxes of Sherlocks equipment and general peculiar detritus. 

He had thoughts about clearing the room a bit, before sleeping there; he always kept his room or quarters tidy; but looking at these familiar objects, things that were part of Him (the capitalisation made sense as there was definitely only One of Sherlock) made his heart glad, and he decided they were more of a comfort than a nuisance for now. On balance. He only sneezed a few times, from the dust. Worth it. 

He might clear an actual path from door to duvet tomorrow though, as the mess did trouble his mind. And a troubled John-mind was one much more prone to the terrible nightmares.

He probably would have slept longer, but after months of a warm curving body next to him in bed, the sound of her breathing and the feel of another's soft skin touching his own, he felt very alone. He noticed he wasn't using her name anymore. Just the memory of anothers body that he now wouldn't name. He didn't regret walking away, he had no choice; but it didn't make the feeling of utter loss any less painful. He wondered if Sherlock felt lonely, ever? He was so used to being alone, always seemed to choose it and John wondered if he know there was anything any different to choose? Would he want to?

.................

Also not helping John sleep, were thoughts of the conversation of the previous evening, playing over in his mind. He was humbled that Sherlock had felt able to confide in him, just not sure of the best way to help, always assuming there was any helping to be done. 'Being here' was the best he could do, maybe? 

He still had most of his month long paternity leave left; there was no hurry to get back to work, although the distinct lack of a wife and baby was going to take some difficult explaining when he did....'It's like this Sarah. I had a wife and a baby and then I discovered my wife was a semi retired international assassin who tried to murder Sherlock (who I think I might love even though I am not gay) and my baby is the child of a man who strapped me into a Semtex vest for fun who is dead but she chose to inseminate herself with as he thought it would be amusing, and he could leave a legacy to the world which I would bring up.' Maybe he needed to think of some white lies.....they were going to need to be good ones, though, and he wasn't sure he even had the energy to try anymore.

He bit his lip. His mind started to wander. Wondered if Mary would have continued the deceit, and for how long. Wondered if he could actually produce a child himself? His proof, his Rebecca, was no longer proof of anything other than lies. Not his child. 'Not. Mine.' The words echoed around his head. He tried to think of something else.

...................

John wasn't sure if Sherlock had moved from the sofa during the night, or was still prone, where he had left him with a glass of water. Whether he was well, or still going through withdrawal? There was no human sound to be heard. The only sounds were the drip of a leaky tap and the occasional creak of wood, in a building whose bones complained and grumbled as they cooled each night. 

With the dawn at last breaking cool and grey, John rose and donned his dressing gown over his T-shirt and boxers. It was serviceable - John approved of serviceable. Towelling, practical, washable, hard wearing. The only downside was if you had a snagged fingernail, as the tiny loops in the fabric caught it mercilessly. John didn't have that problem. Like the rest of him, his nails were short, neat, tidy and well scrubbed. Ready for action. 

Ready to leave, Billy Wiggins would have said. Bloody Wiggins. Magnussons murder might never have happened if he hadn't helped Sherlock drug everyone. The towelling garments' contrast to the gowns Sherlock wore, wafted, and generally draped, around the premises wasn't lost on him. Funny how opposite they were in almost every respect. Ying and Yang. More like Laurel and Hardy with a death wish at times.....He padded downstairs to the bathroom and showered, them shaved, and dressed. Better. 

He wandered into the living room. Sherlock was still lying on the sofa. If John was honest in his assessment, he probably looked worse than the night before. No sleep then, clearly, but he also looked strange, somehow. Maybe it was the drugs, still working their way out. Withdrawal. 

'Tea?'  
John wafted a cup on front of the crossly frowning face.  
'Thank you, John'. The deep (chocolate, whisky, wine, possibly high class porn) voice was neutral and non committal, like last nights discussions had never happened. Clearly not to be continued, then, at least not for now.  
John set down the two steaming cups and perched on the arm of his chair. 

'Will you eat some toast if I make it?' 

No reply, not even a Delphic oracle nod or sign. John ignored the lack of response, sighed and went into the kitchen, popping the bread in the toaster. Once it was ready he returned with it, and set the tray down on the low coffee table. He noticed a burn mark and sizeable hole in the oriental rug under the table. That was new, it hadn't been there when John had lived here last. But then, that was a long time ago now, in every sense. Not that new then. And not just physical marks had emerged since then.

Sherlock consented to eat a half of a half of a half of a single slice of toast. This morsel, which was basically only bite sized to start with, Sherlock cut into six tiny pieces. No butter. No jam either, but then jam wasn't an option until John had time to replace the contaminated jars. He still hadn't worked out what had befallen them. 

John had honey on his toast. Sherlock, having finished his own microscopic ration, silently watched John eat his toast. John biting. Chewing. Swallowing. Licking the honey from his lips. John saw Sherlock watching and mentally noted it in his 'interesting' folder in his mind, and didn't draw attention to it. 

....................

After breakfast, such as it was, John sat quietly in his chair and Sherlock lounged back on the sofa for a few minutes. Then John sat up. 

'Okay. Your brother will be here later on and I'm not sure when, so we need to do some things before that happens.' 

'No we don't. What things?'

'Well for a start, I need to check you over. As your doctor. Like we discussed with Mycroft. And we need more milk, and some jam, although those can wait if they have to.'

Sherlock scowled, and sighed, but consented to move to a seated position on the sofa. He looked slightly odd like that, since he was normally lying slumped along it, or on one memorable, occasion, upside down with head near the floor and his knees hooked over the top of the backrest (For an experiment, he claimed).

John went and got his medical bag and some weigh scales.  
'Stand up and stand on the scales please'  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, but sulkily complied. 

John winced as he looked at the glowing display. Sherlock was borderline for an extremely underweight category, and given the unbalanced nature of what little he did eat, was probably technically malnourished as well. Cocaine not being one of your 'Five a Day' fruit and veg, so far as John was aware.

'Right. I'm not under any circumstances going to try to make you routinely eat more solid food, which normally would be the strategy.' No need to spell out why. Not now John understood why a six foot tall grown adult man might decide never to eat anything in pieces larger than a thumbnail. Stupid, stupid John. He berated himself again, wondering how it had taken Mycroft Holmes to spell out to him what should have been a neon flashing sign to a medical professional of his experience. He shook himself. There was no point in dwelling on that now. 

'But in return, I want you to be drinking at least one meal replacement shake a day. Every day. No exceptions. Or a smoothie which I make up. And I am going to do an online food delivery order, and you are going to tell me what things you might eat, just to graze on, nuts, dried fruit, crisps, snacks, popcorn, whatever it is. They'll keep. That stuff will go in the cupboard nearest to the fridge, which will be labelled and is now out of bounds to experiments. By the way, I'm not waiting for a nod, this is happening, I'm ordering it, as your doctor.'

He got the nod anyway. That was unexpected. If he was honest he was a bit rattled by how quiet and relatively cooperative Sherlock was being. like he was crushed by events and his own powerlessness. No longer on an actively self destructive path, he seemed quite lost. And while it was useful for medical examination purposes, John felt slightly uneasy. Too quiet and sometimes that was worse, more significant, than violent explosions of emotion. He ploughed on, anyway. This needed to be done. 

'Right. Now I need to examine you and also take a blood sample. Then at some point as soon as possible, I need you to pee in this jar'. He waggled the offending item in front of Sherlock, who was clearly very used to being asked to pee in jars and have blood removed from him for all kinds of testing purposes, and looked epicly bored by the prospect. 

Sherlock huffed in protest but very slowly removed his dressing gown and T shirt, immediately revealing what a poor physical state he was in. Ribs very prominent, bruises on them and also on his back, a hell of a lot of deep scratches, the bite marks on his neck and shoulder now black and yellow, and deep black bruises on both bony too-prominent hips. Scars on his back that were older, ones John hadn't seen; those were deep gouges, some of which had clearly required treatment at the time that they hadn't got. Looking at them, John could see they must have been from the time Sherlock was in exile after his faked death, after the Fall. The realisation that he had actually punched, wrestled and head butted Sherlock when those wounds were fresh, shook him. 

................

He winced and swallowed hard. Look at the newer stuff instead, he thought. But that really, really, didn't help. Especially the dark bruises on Sherlocks hips, which instantly produced a mental replay of the things John had seen on Mycrofts CCTV footage. He tried to shut down the thoughts. 

He didn't comment specifically on anything he was seeing. Just did his job. He quickly took the blood sample, trying not to look at the array of healing track marks that littered Sherlocks long, pale arms. He did the rest of his checks, heart, blood pressure and all the usuals. Quick as possible. Get him dressed and covered. Don't want to look at this any more. He doesn't want you to, either.

He had to say something though. It was bothering him too much to ignore.

'This is about the drugs, Sherlock, but also about the state of your wider health.'  
John hesitated.  
'We will do the usual blood analysis but will also need to run a full set of screens for other stuff, AIDS, other STIs and the like. '

Pause. Calm, neutral John voice adopted and deployed. 

'Did you not think it would have been a good idea to have had them use condoms?'

John knew this last question was stepping over the boundaries of a medical discussion in some respects, but it was an important discussion given the risks. And Sherlock as a gay man would surely be familiar with the protocols of only dispensing with condoms, if at all, in a long term exclusive relationship after regular testing?

Sherlock didn't look at him. A flat voice in his reply, not unlike Mycrofts when discussing the worst details of Sherlocks past. Like someone else was speaking.

'I didn't care. It didn't matter.' 

John knew what Sherlock was saying, though he didn't like it any more for understanding it. 

Didn't matter because he didn't care anymore. Didn't plan to continue living in the long term, so viruses and infections ceased to be relevant. He couldn't let that pass. He tipped up Sherlocks face with a finger under his chin, and gazed at him, trying to see in the depths of his ocean coloured eyes something to help John understand, to enable John to help him. 

'It does matter. You matter. Your life fucking matters. Idiot.'

Sherlock stared back at him, blinking. Then he closed his eyes. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he brought his long slender hand up to the side of Johns face, and gently rested it on Johns cheek. So still, so light a pressure. Almost not there at all, like a cobweb brushing across his skin. 

Johns own hand dropped to his side. He froze and held his breath for the longest time, until at long last he had to take air. His breath snatched in a small gasp. He felt lightheaded and then there was a roaring in his ears which accelerated and rose and he felt like he was underwater and he couldn't hear anymore; and he was going to pass out.....and...and.......then the roaring receded. Almost passed out. Close thing. He was sweating, he could feel it. 

The two men stayed there like statues for several minutes. John hadn't realised his head had tipped down and was now resting on the crown of Sherlocks head. His lips among the dark curls, his nose buried. He did not kiss. Just rested still, present and there, and breathed in the evidence of an alive Sherlock beneath his touch, and the smell of his body, his hair. Sherlock stayed perfectly still, his hand still framing the side of Johns face. Frozen in time.

..............

The sound of Johns mobile ringing eventually brought the brief and strange interlude to an abrupt end. It was Mycroft, calling to say that he would be with them in an hour, and 'if John could arrange for Sherlock to be both clean, if necessary forcibly scrubbing him with coal tar soap, or something similarly abrasive, and also dressed in something more substantial than a bed sheet, that would really be very much appreciated'. 

Mycroft probably didn't appreciate the mental and physical discomfort that the image of roughly scrubbing down a wriggly Sherlock with a stiff brush and some rough household soap created for John. He squeaked a goodbye, and rang off, grateful and regretful in equal measure that Sherlock was already pretty clean. 

Sherlock, now acting as though nothing earth shattering had just happened, silently went to dress, returning in his armour of expensive bespoke shirt and suit, handmade shoes and silk socks. Mycroft would approve of that aspect, at least, thought John. He'd never been quite sure if Mycrofts distaste for Sherlocks drug habit was greater than his distaste for his brothers sartorial appearance and attitude when under the influence.

John was dressed in his own uniform of durable, well made everyman clothes, comfortable and deceptive to outsiders. 

He cleared away the breakfast tray, noting that numbers five and six of the six toast particles had not been eaten. He groaned. Later, he decided, he would try to make sure more was achieved, eating wise. He simply had to do better, or Sherlock wouldn't make it long term anyway, no matter what Moran tried to do. He was eating less than ever, now, and it couldn't go on: Johns health checks compared with the hospital ones showed he was wasting away. John resolved this would be his focus.

For now, the two men sat in their chairs and awaited Mycrofts arrival.


	2. Mycroft and some photographs

Precisely to the minute (How exactly did he do that in London traffic? John suspected he had a futuristic spooky zapper which altered all the traffic lights), Mycroft could be heard talking to Mrs Hudson downstairs. John hadn't heard her return last night and he caught snatches of their conversation, as the old building really did have little sound insulation. 

'Keeping well, Mrs Hudson?......sister......hip.......Mrs Turner....begonias.....very quiet up there.....yes, indeed some regrettable trouble Mrs Hudson.....recovery.....John Watson....yes some more trouble....making Madeira cake later.....too kind....yes, later.....thankyou so much...'

The heavy footsteps and tap of the umbrella, saw both John and Sherlock adopting certain expressions. If it were a paint colour, John thought Sherlocks expression might be named 'Defensive Glower' and his own, he hoped, was 'Do Not Even Try It with Me Mycroft, for I am not In The Mood'. 

Mycroft swept in. All precise tailoring and organisation and privilege. He didn't sit. There was only the sofa or the desk chairs with current vacancies, as John wasn't giving up his own chair. Sherlock was definitely not giving up his; he was too busy scowling. 

'Good morning gentlemen. I hope we have had a pleasant and restful night.' Mycrofts eyes swept from one man to the other, clearly trying to read the state of the relationship between the two. He looked slightly disappointed, John concluded. Was he hoping for debauched half naked flatmates with kiss swollen lips and an array of underwear, sex toys, condoms and lube littered across the tufted Axminster? Interfering snooper. 

Mycroft cleared his throat dramatically, clearly unhappy that his hosts were not paying him undivided attention. (John was still thinking about the sex toys, though at Mycrofts intervention, he quickly stopped having any thoughts about sex toys and lube any more). Perhaps 'Mycroft' should be his safe word. Though maybe it would be too strong a passion killer. And he wasn't sure Sherlock would want his brothers name anywhere in any bedroom activities, whatever the circumstances. Stick to 'red'. Or 'Basildon.'

There came a grunt from Sherlock who rolled his eyes dramatically and started picking at imaginary fluff on his suit. Looking at his violin case with longing, but that was out of easy reach from where he was lounging. Shame. The screeching noises really, really annoyed Big Brother. Very satisfying.

'Thankyou, yes, Mycroft. It is very good to be......back here.' John had nearly said 'home', but didn't know if that was appropriate terminology at this stage.

'Good, good. Thats excellent.' Mycroft beamed the beaming smile of a man used to the world of global diplomacy and political insincerities.

Mycroft signalled to the door and the ever present Anthea-not-my-real-name, glided into the room. John hadn't even known she was in the house. 

'The blood and urine samples please, Doctor Watson'. Mycroft was clearly fully expecting John to have drawn the samples.

John protested. 'I was going to do the tests. Or rather, get Molly to do them.'

'Yes. Were. No. It is more appropriate that all the tests are performed...independently....and by labs which are the best possible equipped, and can process them quickest, don't you think.' Mycroft stated this as a fact, and not a question.

John gave in. His ego didn't apply where questions of health, especially Sherlocks, were involved, and if any of the really serious tests were positive, he actually didn't want Molly involved. She was, to say the least emotional where matters Sherlockian were concerned. He handed over the two samples to the outstretched hand of the lovely Anthea. She dressed quite like Sherlock, he observed? Never noticed that before? Obviously Sherlock didn't have nail varnish. John tried to delete thoughts of Sherlock with scarlet painted nails, dragging them down Johns back. O Bloody Fuck. Concentrate, Watson. 

Mycroft wasted little time in getting down to business. 

'You will be I think pleased to know, John, that Sherlocks 'chums' from the unpleasant video tape we were forced to endure watching, will definitely not be requiring payment from their clients in a similar manner again.' 

John glanced at Sherlock, but he now seemed to be distant and disconnected from the room. He was still frowning at the violin case.

'How so?'

Mycroft smiled a thin smile.

'They are in police custody for the drugs offences, naturally. A large quantity of high quality cocaine, speed and heroin was seized. Well, to be "strictly" accurate, John, they are in guard custody in hospital.'

Why are they in hospital, Mycroft?' John thought they might have resisted arrest, or perhaps Mycrofts flunkies had given them a bit of a beating to punish them for their treatment of his little brother. 

But of course, this was Mycroft. And Sherlock. He should have known. 

Mycroft smiled broadly. Which was a very chilling sight.  
'It transpires, that whilst they will still be able to enjoy a fulfilling and loving relationship with a future romantic partner, and I very much hope they do, they will sadly require to do so as a 'receiver' and not a 'giver' of direct physical pleasure. Still, I believe there are many varied and enjoyable.....'

Johns eyes widened.

'Stop! Please Mycroft, spare me the detail. God! What did you do to them? Chop it off?' He couldn't believe his ears. He was joking, though he knew this was Mycroft, who rarely joked. 

'No, no, no! Of course not, John. We are a civilised nation. We are not barbarians. This is England, John. The cradle of Western civilisation. The flower of the Enlightenment. The crucible of the Industrial Revolution.

No, these two unlucky gentlemen simply had an unfortunate accident when working in a machine tool factory just outside Ruislip. 'Things' became caught in machinery during routine maintenance. It resulted in a certain degree of 'mangling' to both gentlemens penises. Something in the equipment that should have been switched off, clearly wasn't. 

Careless, very careless, John; Health and Safety rules are there to be followed. This is undoubtedly a valuable lesson to us all.'

Mycroft smiled beatifically, as though he had just presented the prizes at the church Summer fete. He looked very satisfied. He didn't have a purring white Persian cat in his lap, but aside from that he looked the proper James Bond deal. 

John rubbed his face in his hands. This was more like the Godfather, than an ordinary day in North London. He strongly disliked the whole idea of vengeance, and this was almost an eye for an eye. He also quickly recognised, however, that Mycroft could, and might well have, had the men killed, and supposed to that extent, things could have been worse for them. 

And like a dog returning to his vomit, he mentally re-lived Sherlock telling him, of how the men made him let them fuck him 'for old times sake', and refused to allow him to pay for the drugs instead. How they forcibly held his head down, when he refused to give a blow job, the one activity more than any other that reminded Sherlock of his childhood abuse, the abuse that still now prevented his friend from eating more than a few square inch morsels of toast in the morning. 

John reflected on that, and then John Watson didn't feel outraged for the men any more. Just a burning anger and frustration that he couldn't undo all of this, unpick it and start from day zero of William Holmes life. With John actually never having to call anyone Sherlock, but instead to be able to be good friends with a sparkling, undamaged man called William who was healthy and lived a happy balanced life, ate well and had good positive relationships. 

Instead of sitting in a 'Sherlock' flat, nodding and listening as the victims elder brother calmly and smilingly described the deliberate effective castration of two of Sherlocks latest abusers.

He looked again at Sherlock. He was looking more alert now, less glassy, but he was now fixated staring at his skull on the mantelpiece. Like it could give him some answers to questions he hadn't thought of yet. 

Sherlock didn't look upset about the fate of his last two sexual partners. Maybe that's just what happens if you get to have sex with Sherlock Holmes, John mused. Like an insect eating its mate. You get to shag him and then you get your willy mangled. Or cut off. Or worse. By his brother. Not that enticing a prospect, if that was the case. Hopefully this was a one off. He was very fond of his penis. It had served him well and received a number of compliments as to its proportions and impressive efficacy in a number of varied and imaginative scenarios. It twitched as he pondered, clearly knowing it was being talked about. 

Mycroft cleared his throat discreetly. He must despair of me by now, thought John, and resolved to clear his mind by an epic masturbation session at the earliest practical opportunity, provided he could rid his mind of images of willy mangling.

Mycroft placed two thick files on the table. He tapped the first file. He turned directly to John.

'This is full information about the woman you knew as...Mary Morstan, along with details of current health updates for her and the child. You may choose to read it, or not.'

Johns face drained of colour. Just like that. Mycroft drops this in, just like that. The man is clearly not a human being. 

'Yep, great, thanks for that, Mycroft'. John stared at him coldly, stalked across to the table, picked up the file and walked over to the fireplace, and dropped it straight into the flames. 

'I respect your decision, John.' Mycroft hadn't blinked an eye. Sherlock, however was watching this scene with sudden alertness and interest, eyes flicking from the folder to John and back again. His eyes narrowed as the flames consumed the papers and he looked back at John, who held his gaze. Challenged him silently. 'Don't say anything', Johns look directed. 'This is not something that I wish to speak of now.' 

Sherlock looked back at the skull.

Mycroft interrupted again. He was good at that. Did a lot of it, recently, John had noticed.

'The second file is your briefing for the latest phase of the operation to dismantle Morans network and ultimately take him out. There are two copies, one for each of you. In summary, his main coordination centre is operating out of a flat in the Barbican estate, London EC2. There are four of his men working out of there, running the various criminal and mercenary operations we have, to date, been tackling at 'shop floor' level. 

We suspect they are using the Barbican because of its labyrinthine structure of walkways and corridors and car parks, quite apart from the concert hall, library, roof garden, need I go on...... Everywhere has a huge number of escape routes and sniper vantage points and it's a very challenging place to lock down without detection.

However, do so we must. Tomorrow we will be launching a raid on the flat. Your role, both of you, will be in helping us to understand the relative importance and danger each of the four men represents. We do not expect to find Moran there, but we are hoping to find evidence that will help us to find him. 

We have analysed the evidence but your record, Sherlock, in finding connections and links others routinely miss, mean we are now bringing you in, brother dear. And Doctor Watson, as your sounding board and right hand man. I would dearly like to avoid you being involved in the physical raid, so you will be in our cars monitoring the raid live from just outside the Barbican. 

'Is the intention to take these people alive or dead?' John imagined that M16 would want to interrogate the suspects if at all possible.

'Alive unless that becomes untenable.' 

Mycroft rose to his feet. Anthea rose in unison. 

'Call me once you have read the material. Whether or not it leads to any significant progress.

By the way, the windows are being replaced later today.' 

John wasn't sure if he was talking to him or Sherlock, but he nodded as the detective was once more looking distant and disconnected. 

When he looked up again, Mycroft and Anthea were gone. But John saw that a small flat package remained on the coffee table. It was addressed to John. He slipped it into his pocket and quietly went out of the living room, into the bathroom and locked the door. 

Opening the parcel he found a note in Mycrofts crisp, elegant handwriting on the expensive heavy weave cream writing paper John normally only encountered on wedding invitations these days. 

It read:

'Dear Doctor Watson.

Please find enclosed some photographs of the gentlemen from our videotape, following their accident, with close ups of their injuries. In addition there are some photographs, postmortem, of Jonathon Lang, Sherlocks childhood abuser.' (The writing became slightly less elegant here, more spiky, the name written as though the pen had been depressed with some force into the paper).

'I am not suggesting that you show these to Sherlock now, but it may become of value to do so should he experience a crisis, in order to reinforce the certainty that those who perpetrate violent acts upon him, do not do so without appropriate consequence and that there are people here ready to protect him, to the best of their ability.

Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes'

John flipped over the letter, closed his eyes then re-opened them and looked at the photographs. Then he vomited into the sink.This vomiting was getting to be a habit. But then, so was disgusting and disturbing material being thrust in front of his face.

He vomited firstly because despite being a doctor, to see another mans private parts in that kind of state was horrifying. Its power to shock was only increased by his own identity as a man. It was impossible not to flinch. 

And then he vomited a second time because he had moved to the second set of photos and he was actually now looking into the cold (very dead) eyes of the man who had repeatedly raped an eleven year old Sherlock and got away with it, until Mycroft was old enough and powerful enough to catch up with him. 

And all John wanted to do was to bring Lang back to life. Make him live again, simply so that John could kill him slowly, and then do it over and over and over again and make him cry out and suffer, like the little boy he destroyed. John felt shocked by the raw violence he was imagining himself perpetrating, the uncontrolled nature of his own rage. But he couldn't, and didn't, feel even a flicker of shame.

He sat on the linen basket and breathed heavily, trying to control the continuing nausea. Then practicalities took over. Where to put the photos? He decided on a crack between his bookcase and the wall in his room, and raced upstairs. Safely stowed, he returned downstairs and filled the kettle. 

'Tea?', he asked.


	3. Events overtake plans

Baker Street was quiet that day. John had been out briefly earlier, to forage like a caveman for household supplies and food for the two of them: (note from John: caveman analogy not valid to the point of dragging said flatmate to said cave by said flatmates hair, in order to bodily ravish said flatmate, just so everything is clear). He had been trailed all the way by several of (what he hoped were) Mycrofts minions, all earpieces, bad haircuts and concealed weapons that were immediately obvious to John.

He had returned about four pm, laden with bags of provisions. Minions clearly didn't include bag carrying in their job description, which was a bit rubbish as a John laden with shopping was a John pretty unable to fight off an attacker. However he reached the flat undamaged.

Chief amongst the goodies John had procured were the smoothie ingredients, and some snack ideas for Sherlock to safely nibble without provoking the food phobia. Sherlock hadn't provided any ideas for these, as John had demanded, but John hadn't felt able to push it for now. So he had improvised, buying anything that had an ingredient he could ever remember Sherlock eating. It didn't take long.

This would be mad to attempt with anyone normal and result in an overflowing kitchen, but with Sherlocks eating habits it was quite practical, if sobering. Yes to raisins and their ilk, yes to other dried fruit of a suitable size like blueberries, cranberries. No to nuts, which were too dry to be swallowed easily without a drink, no to dried apple and anything in large enough pieces that it might become stuck in ones throat, might cause choking. 

He'd also bought the more prosaic, basic provisions. Bread, milk, butter, tea, coffee. And jam. Lots and lots of jam. John felt that while many of the worlds problems were intractable, he would be better able to help solve them with jam inside him. On toast. Mmmmm.

His final prize had been some fish and chips, from the rather down at heel chippy on the Marylebone Road. It doubled as a pizza and kebab shop, so the fish and chips always had a slight smell of doner kebab, which was slightly off putting. Also they didn't seen to fare too well in their annual hygiene inspections. John didn't really care today, he just wanted something tasty and hot. They weren't exactly piping by the time he got to 221B, and they were certainly squashed-ish, but he thought they would be good fare for setting them up for tomorrow. And he had seen Sherlock eat a few chips in the past, though with the fish he usually only picked a few desultory flakes out the middle and never touched the rest, or any of the batter, which seemed a complete waste of money and fish. The batter was the best bit in Johns opinion.

He dumped everything on the kitchen table, thankfully managing not to dislodge the numerous mould cultures littering the surface, some of which were actually moving, and went to find Sherlock. He located him in the bathroom and called out that his lordships dinner was served. The window fitters had been and gone, so at least they no longer needed to worry about snipers targeting them from the buildings opposite, but he closed the thick heavy curtains anyway. The nights were getting chilly, and the huge sash windows didn't close tightly; if you stood next to them you could feel the cold air circulating even when they were closed. John shivered slightly, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the cold.

After a quiet early supper, which involved the expected fish morsel picking and the removal of seven chips from Johns plate, despite Sherlock having a whole portion of untouched fish and chips of his own, he chucked the remains in the kitchen bin, and they settled down in front of the fire with tea and biscuits and Mycrofts thick briefing file on the impending Barbican operation. The fire warmed the place up and it felt a bit more like old times. John yearned for that feeling.

But reading the file, John was instantly worried. The flat they were targeting was in Fellowes House, a raised apartment building overlooking the Barbican lake and fountain on one side, and Beech Street on the other. The only access to the flat was via the stairs and lift tower which served two flats on each of the four floors. These were in a single shaft accessed from the raised walkway above the lake and some lower apartments. 

The flat they were after was on the first floor above the raised walkway. All the flats had floor to ceiling windows facing into the Barbican and panoramic views making approaching unseen almost impossible. The external facing windows onto Beech Street were slightly less big, coming halfway down the wall, then being blocked by window boxes (made of thick concrete like everything else in the Barbican) before starting again below the window boxes and reaching down to the floor. 

The car parks were underground and could have been a way in, but unusually the car park for Fellowes House was not underneath the building, but a short walk away, owing to the discovery of some important Roman remains when the Barbican complex was built. So they couldn't use that route. The whole site was pretty much in the heart of the Roman city of Londinium and close to the Museum of London. John, whose first focus was always on entry, exit and potential traps, could see plenty of traps here. Not good. He wondered what the Romans would have done. 

Sherlock on the other hand, always concentrated much more on what was going to happen when he actually encountered Mr or Ms Bad. How he was going to defeat them with his rapier mind and deductions, and prove how much cleverer he was than them. The safe and timely extrication of personages seemed to come a long way down the list, so much so that John wondered if the recent death wish was really all that recent, and how on earth he had survived to this point. Mycroft, he concluded. Sherlock might think his brother a weary burden, but Mycroft undoubtedly tried to protect his brother from every quarter, having failed entirely to be able to protect him all those years ago. 

Sherlock was deeply engrossed in his copy of the briefing notes, which were spread all over the coffee table, the floor and the wall. He sat on the floor cross legged, peering and squinting at various diagrams and maps. He did this so much that in the past John had wondered if he was short or long sighted, but he had since seen opticians test results proving this wasn't the case. It was just Sherlocks way. He was muttering too, running his long bony fingers through the dark curly hair. Hair Johns nose had been buried in very recently. Stop that, he thought. Not the time.

John was also reading his copy of the material, but in what he felt was a more coherent, organised fashion. He didn't have a photographic memory or mind palace, but he did have a logical brain and he also had the ability to think through issues calmly, even under great pressure. (Which had come in handy when your flatmates heart stops after your wife shoots him in the chest, general everyday stuff like that). 

After two hours of silent reading, and no sound from Sherlock, John got up and stretched. As he did so his T shirt rode up a fair way, and a section of John tummy, complete with a pale trail of golden hair disappearing down into his trousers, was displayed to the room. He went and procured a beer from the fridge and returned to the living room, plonking himself down on the sofa, silently chuckling to himself. Not that engrossed in the briefing notes, then, Sherlock? ......John hadn't missed the quick-but-definitely-there sidelong glances and the slight frown. 

John wished words could be said, extent of feelings discussed, but he was too wary to raise it. Because of the case, which at the moment needed all their attention, but also because he was frankly bricking himself at the idea of finally coming to terms with his bisexuality in an open way. 

He'd always known it as a part of who he was, and that was really fine when only he knew, but he had never come out openly about it; and he had thought it would stay that way. The only person he'd opened up to was in the Army, one Major James Sholto, on whom John had developed a huge crush and with whom he had indulged in some mutually beneficial non military interactions involving hurried handjobs and blowjobs, but which relationship hadn't survived both of their deep concerns about anyone finding out.

In truth, John had felt crushed by his perception that Sholto was not quite as into John as John was Sholto, and had felt hurt for a long time. He got over it by sleeping with a lot of women and drinking a shed lot of beer. He hadn't forgotten though, and in a fit of sentiment, he had invited Sholto to his wedding, never really expecting him to come. It had been touching that he did, and there were definitely poignant echoes of what had been, when the two men met face to face again, especially when Sherlock saved Sholtos life from the Mayfly Man, but John wasn't going to 'follow an antique drum' as John Milton would have it. That relationship was over. 

A major reason for Johns reluctance to come out as bisexual, was the likely reactions of his family and former army friends. His parents were traditional and blinkered in a way only working class post-war generational parents can be, and had been so hostile and vile to his sister Harry, when she came out as a lesbian in her mid teens. They had said some terrible, disgusting things and the scars of that treatment couldn't have helped Harry with her subsequent drinking problem. 

It wasn't that John kidded himself that his relationship with his parents had been good, but he still dreaded the impact. Although his father was now dead, Johns mother had subsequently placed all of her hopes for grandchildren (about which aim she was pretty obsessed) firmly in Johns lap. 

He was already going to have to tell her she wasn't a grandmother after all; that her expected granddaughter was no relation of theirs. To also tell her she wasn't likely to be one in the future either, as her only son was now completing the set of queer offspring, a lovely matching pair, was not likely to go down at all well......

And that was just his family. His army mates reactions were likely to be, at best, very mixed. Probably more so telling them now than if he'd been open from the start. They would feel betrayed, wondering if he'd hidden things from them, when they were all so close. 

But even though these things preyed on his mind, most of all, he was scared of how to deal with Sherlock in a way that would be good and not harmful for them both. 

He was so private and guarded, John felt as though he was only now beginning to really know the man at all. And there were layers of damage there, and taped yellow and black lines saying 'Do not cross' but John couldn't judge where they were. Like IEDs, you didn't know you hit them until they blew up in your face. He didn't know how to travel a path without encountering crises so deep that they threatened everything. 

He wanted a relationship, he knew that now, but not at the cost of a disastrous destabilisation of Sherlocks physical or psychological health, or of a rift between them so deep it could never be mended. 

So, this day, John did....nothing. Well, almost nothing. He didn't instigate anything.

Instead they talked about the case, about the four characters they were planning to capture. Sherlock had some thoughts about one of them, and called Mycroft. Then he sank back on the sofa next to John and stared at the skull on the mantelpiece. John was by now onto his third beer. Probably too much considering tomorrow's mission. He was tired, too. Chips didn't help. He would just rest his head against the back of the sofa.....

He awoke gradually, probably only half a hour later, to realise that he was slumped against Sherlocks bruised and bony chest and had appeared to have dribbled on him during his sleep.   
'Oh god, sorry', he protested, embarrassed, trying to wipe away the small pool of drool. 'Just a bit knackered'. 

He didn't move his head up from Sherlocks chest though. Thought he would enjoy that warmth and the sensation of listening to his heart, a little longer. 

'I didn't mind.' Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling into Johns ear through his chest cavity. The sound went straight to Johns cock. Oops. Seemed to have become a bit of a Pavlovian reaction, that (even though he definitely wasn't Sherlocks pet).

'Ummm'. John thought he'd best move before his embarrassment deepened and made a mountain out of a molehill, so to speak.

'John.' 

Sherlocks voice seemed to have got deeper, deeper even than normal. 

Then he said it again.

'John.'

And then, just like that, things happened. Which they never do actually do. Not in real life, not in the life of a washed up army veteran. Not with a strange peacock of a human being wrapped in Spencer Hart and Belstaff display feathers. 

But they did happen. 

Sherlock was leaning over John and now so close, so close, so.... and his lips, those impossible lips were ghosting over Johns lips, and then those lips were pressed against Johns lips and Johns mouth was opening a little and then there were tongues involved and it was gentle and soft and impossibly erotic despite the slow pace, and then Sherlocks lips were open and there were tongues and exploration and teeth and did he mention the lips..........and oh God. John was more turned on by this kiss than any he had ever had, and that was a big sample pool. Three continents worth. And this was sexier. By far. Shit.

They broke free for air. Neither had thought to breathe through their noses in order to maintain consciousness and both were very red in the face. Sherlock looked like he was ready to flee, like a startled deer more than a man, shaking, and John was terrified he would do just that. And he did do that, and quite soon. 

But not because of the kiss. 

John licked his lips nervously. Took deep breaths.They needed to talk, properly. Ideally when his hard on was a tiny little less bit insistent, as it was currently feeling like it was in the driving seat of Johns supercharged libido. He didn't look at Sherlocks engines state of play. All that department was too explicit and advanced for Johnwhoisnotgay. Though Johnwhoisbisexual was very keen to get right on and right down with things. All the things. Everything.

But before he knew it, before he could start to speak, Sherlock was looking frightened, and then he was sitting forward on the sofa now, looking terrified and clenching and unclenching his hand and staring at the skull on the mantelpiece. Again. Yet again. That skull.

That skull. John had had enough of that sodding skull. Sherlock was using it to zone him out too much of the time. They needed to get their heads around what they were doing here and how to make it good for them both. Maybe he'd had too much beer. Maybe he should say nothing. But he wanted to know now. 

'Who is it then?'

'Who is what?'

'The skull. On the mantelpiece. You look at it a LOT. Mainly when things get difficult with people and you don't want to talk. Who is it, that helps you so much. A favourite scientist? A school friend who crossed you once too often? Or is it just from a random corpse you dug up in a nocturnal nature ramble?'

'It's not random.'

John was taken aback.

'Right. Not random. OK?'

John was a bit freaked out by that revelation. Who the hell is it, if it isn't random?

Sherlock didn't elaborate. John, like a foolish explorer failing to heed the massive sign saying 'here be dragons', tramped on...

'So, who is it then?' 

'You won't like it. I don't want to tell you. Don't ask. You'll think it's weird, that I'm weird. A freak.'

'No, Listen. This is me. I won't. I promise I won't. But I'm interested to know.'

The Lord save us from nosy interested questions posed to detectives who have made it clear they don't want to answer them. But The Lord wasn't in the mood to let John know that.

There was absolutely no way on Gods earth that John would have made that promise if he had been able to foretell what Sherlock was about to say. 

Sherlock looked at him strangely, with an odd light in his pale eyes and a flush to his cheeks. 

'The skull belongs to a man called Jonathon Lang. Mycroft has mentioned him to you.' 

John felt every single drop of blood drain from his face. 

'You are joking?  
Tell me you are joking. Sherlock please say that is a fucking sick joke.'

No reply. Silence. No eye contact. Nothing.

'OK so not a joke, then. Then it's just creepy. Really really creepy. 

I'm sorry Sherlock but that's just not right. Why on Gods earth do you have that - mans - skull on your mantelpiece staring at you? And you talking to it? It's disturbing. You said the skull was your friend? How can your rapists skull be your FRIEND? Fucking HELL.' John was shaking his head, his face screwed up, looking at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at Skull or Sherlock.

As soon as the words came out, John realised that Sherlock was shaking and muttering and actually now really not hearing anything John was saying. But Johns anger and shock held him in a vice and prevented him from reaching out and grabbing Sherlock and, and holding him close and stopping him from destroying himself any more.

Instead, John, good John, honest John, kind John, compassionate John, who knew about Sherlocks past, continued to be in shock, continued to stare at the floor, and then looked up with a face of pure disbelief. Searching Sherlocks face for some idea of why he would want to do this, have this thing here staring at him, day after day.

He didn't get an answer.

Sherlock stood, and stared at him coldly, still shaking but his eyes were now glittering, his lips clamped in a line and his gaze narrowed, and then suddenly he swept out of the room and thundered down the stairs. He didn't even collect his Belstaff coat. It was a cold damp night. The front door slammed. Silence. 

Shit. Shit. SHIT. 

John sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

What had he done? 

\-----------

He texted Sherlock eight times in the next ten minutes. Nothing.

He called five times. But the phone was switched off. All he got was the stock ansaphone message with the prissy woman's voice that came with the phone. Sherlock had kept it as the default to discourage callers, preferring them to email, text or call in person at 221B. 

They weren't supposed to be leaving the house under any circumstances, prior to the raid the next morning. He had no idea where Sherlock had gone, or what he was intending doing. Drugs? Sex? Worse? Any were realistic possibilities right now.

John really still couldn't cope with the whole skull thing, but was in parallel beginning to regret his reaction to it. His timing was about the shittiest he could imagine too. Why had he opened his big mouth? His flagging erection twitched in reproach. Even his dick blamed him.

He tried to calm down. Evidence. Sherlock clearly had some reason for wanting to keep the thing, he concluded. He should have tried to find out what that was, and then later tried to wean him off his dependence on it. Or even just persuade him to have the skull somewhere less prominent, where it wasn't gloating at them from the mantelpiece. He wondered who knew about this. Probably just Sherlock. And Mycroft? Mycroft. Mycroft must know.

John concluded that this might need some professional input, and that Sherlocks psychological issues might be more serious and complicated than he had suspected. Still, that was all pretty academic if he couldn't find him before he did something really seriously stupid. 

Reluctantly, slowly, John pulled out his phone and hit his speed dial key to call Mycroft. His men should be tracking Sherlock and would be able to bring him back swiftly and safely, he hoped. 

Mycroft answered quickly. Too quickly. He was expecting the call.

'John. I know Sherlock left the Baker Street property some minutes ago. Can you tell me why please?'

It sounded like an accusation. It was meant to, John realised.

'I...um.... I asked him who the skull on the mantelpiece was, whose skull it is.'

'Did you indeed? How - very brave - and how very very foolish of you. Did you think that was a good idea, John? Did you expect an answer, John, which would have made you 'happy'?'

'Well I didn't bloody think he was going to say it was Jonathon Lang, that's for sure.'

John was fuming as realisation dawned on him.   
'You knew it was Lang's skull, didn't you? You bloody knew!'

'Of course I knew. John.'

'How. How did you know?'

'Because it was I who arranged for it to be given to Sherlock, on his sixteenth birthday.'

John blanched again. Holy shit. 

'I don't get it, Mycroft. Why would you do that? Why would you even....Are you all just fucking weirdos? The whole lot of you? Like the Addams family? God, to think you lot are running the country practically. That's just fucking scary.' John knew he was going too far now, but he was so freaked out and desperate and worried.

'He asked me for it. It is as simple as that. He asked me for it, John, and I secured it for him.

I surmised, and I have given this...extensive consideration....that he wanted to possess it so that Jonathon Lang, or at least what was left of him, would have to in some sense witness Sherlock living his life, a life Jonathon himself had forfeit through his evil; would have to allow himself to be screamed at when things became unbearable; would have to tolerate Sherlock asking him questions about why exactly he did what he did to a young boy like William?

And I procured it for him, in the end, as a constant reminder for Sherlock that the man who did those things to him was dead and wasn't coming back to get him. Would never be able to come back and do again the things he did to the eleven year old William.

It seemed logical and reasonable to me, John. Telling him to forget it, forget the abuse, sweep it under the carpet? That would have been to deny it, to suggest that he should be 'over it'. I wasn't prepared to do that, then or now, although I wouldn't have volunteered the skull had he not requested it, and I have been a little concerned that he has remained so dependent on it for so long.

So I am afraid, John, that I don't especially care if you resort to expletives and abusive terms when referring to me or members of my family. Quite honestly you are not familiar with the unusual demands and character of a Holmes upbringing; you weren't there, and you didn't experience these events. 

And I have to say, you especially have no right at all to judge me, when I have been living with those events, and the fall out from them for my younger brother, for the last twenty five years. Twenty five years, John, and no real end in sight for any of us.'

John had no come back to this. He realised that the trauma and issues he was encountering were beyond his experience. And that Sherlock was not the only victim of what had happened.

'It just seems really very disturbed behaviour, Mycroft.'

'Of course it's disturbed, John. What exactly were you expecting his behaviour to be, other than 'disturbed', I pray? Do tell me. I'm literally all ears. 

And I'm not sure a man in your position of post combat syndrome should really be this judgemental on others manifestations of past trauma, are you?' 

John slumped to the ground with the phone still to his ear. Mycroft was right. He was acting as though it was odd that Sherlock would exhibit abnormal behaviours when in reality it would be much odder if he didn't. After all, his own frequent nocturnal nightmares were so violent that he had to sleep with his gun dismantled into pieces hidden in different locations around the flat, and with nothing in his bedroom that could be used as a weapon. No mirrors either. Good that the windows were now bulletproof too, and not just because of the threat of external attack. More than once he had smashed mirrors or glass in his sleep, and woken with bleeding hands in front of the mess.

But this led him to a new question. Could he, with his own psychological damage, live safely and positively with someone with Sherlocks level of damage? They had seemed to be better together than they were apart, but now Sherlock was in a deep crisis state, could their conflicts ultimately destroy one or both of them? Were they safer apart, or together?

John wasn't sure of the answer, but he did acknowledge that without each other, whether or not they recognised it, they had both already been in crisis. John contemplating suicide to escape the long littleness of life, after being cast aside by the Army. Sherlocks manic attempts to replace the pain of abuse with drugs and sex and danger. At least together they had a chance. Did have a chance. Until Sherlock left. And Mycroft, at least, had placed considerable faith in him. He just wished Mycroft had told him about the skull. Perhaps he calculated John wouldn't have agreed to move back to Baker Street if he'd known. He might have been right, there.

He apologised to Mycroft. It was accepted graciously. 

He tried again, reboot, like this had never happened.

'Is there any update on Sherlocks current location?'

There was a brief pause as Mycroft consulted some device at his end. Then the pause became longer than one would expect. 

John heard an intake of breath. 

Some urgent sounding sharp voices on another phone at Mycrofts end. Then he returned to speak to John. 

'John, we've lost him. He's disappeared from our surveillance cameras and personnel two minutes ago.' The unflappable Mycroft sounded positively perturbed.

'How?' John was about to self destruct. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be allowed to happen. Where was Sherlock? Please, God, where was he? Please let him be safe. Please let us have our chance. 

'I'm not sure. He was on foot, heading through the Temple and close to the Embankment, by the Thames. There's a blind spot in the cameras for about 100 yards and then we should have picked him up again. But we haven't. All the buildings round there have CCTV that we can scan. Nothing. And I can't contact the agents who were watching him in that location. I'm concluding they have been compromised. 

John, I think Moran might have him.'


	4. Huntdown

John was ordered by Mycroft to gather anything he might need, his gun, ammo, torches, ropes etc, to dress in black and to wait for a car which would collect him in seven minutes and twenty seconds. That's actually what he said. Twenty seconds. John was relieved to have something to do because he feared he was going to lose the plot completely otherwise. He felt gut wrenchingly guilty about what had happened and distraught at the thought that after one kiss, Sherlock had been snatched away by Moriartys right hand man. 

Johh had always suspected Moriarty himself of having some rather unpleasant designs on Sherlock, desiring not just to play intellectual games with the detective, but sexual ones too. When Moriarty had kidnapped John before putting him in a Semtex vest at the pool, John had, in the preceding hours, become aware that Moriarty was also seriously considering doing something similar to John, purely in order to taunt Sherlock. Thank god he had decided against it, although who knew why. John tried not to think about it and hadn't told anyone what things Moriarty had said he was going to do to him. The man was deranged and he was dead. 

From what John knew, Moran wasn't unhinged in the same way, though he was still a psychopath. The circumstances of his dishonourable discharge from the army spelt that out quite clearly. He enjoyed killing, killing unnecessarily and for enjoyment. He took pride in it. 

What he was, too, was totally loyal to Moriarty (possibly as more than an employee, John wondered?), and determined to carry out Jims plans to the letter. If those plans included torturing and even abusing Sherlock in a sexual manner, John had no doubt that Moran would do exactly that. John could literally not bear to even think of that abuse happening to Sherlock again. It would be the end for him. John rubbed his arm across his eyes, he couldn't see to stuff the equipment in his knapsack for the tears that were blurring his vision. 

'Fucking shit fucking fuck.' 

The skull stared at him smugly from the mantelpiece. John felt like smashing it into a thousand pieces. Even from beyond the grave, Lang had the power to destroy Sherlock, creating the conflict between John and Sherlock that had put Sherlock back in harms way. John stared at the thing for long moments he couldn't really spare, before he settled for putting on a pair of gloves (do NOT want to touch that thing) and turning the skull to face the wall. It didn't help much but it was all he could do. 

The car arrived on time to the second. Like a Countdown Conundrum clock. 

John climbed in. Arranged around the limousines seating were Mycroft and six humourless heavily armed black clad agents. There was body armour for John too, plus an array of equipment such as knives, taser, body armour, CS gas and smoke bombs. They were taken to a featureless office block just off Whitehall, where they decamped in an underground garage, made their way up to a set of empty offices, and spent the night meticulously planning out the operation. John was desperate to get in, get Sherlock and get out, but he recognised that they only had one chance to do that, and one chance to grab Sebastian Moran. Still, John was glad when morning came, and the go signal was given. He just hoped that Sherlock was still alive for them to rescue.

.........

The plan was to launch the raid as it had been originally planned, but approach via the route they believed Sherlocks kidnappers had taken to see if they could gain any intelligence on his kidnap. So they drove to the Temple and parked in Tudor Street. The gatekeeper to the Temple had been briefed by the Met Commissioners staff and Mycroft and John walked straight into the Temple Gardens, covertly tooled up and body armoured beneath Johns dark sweater and trousers and Mycrofts now rather podgy and tight looking suit. 

All around there were barristers and their clerks walking briskly to and fro, some in long black gowns for court, carrying wig cases and large bundles of paperwork tied up with bright pink cotton ribbon, their legal briefs for the cases. It was like another world. The voices were loud and garrulous, the sparrows chirped in the trees in Temple Gardens, and workmen whistled and clanged as they repaired the lead work on Middle Temple Church roof. Another Sherlock London fact sprang into Johns head. Middle Temple Church had staged one of the first ever performances of a Midsummer Nights Dream. In the lifetime and the presence of the writer......one W Shakespeare Esquire. He of the 'second best bed' left to his wife in his will. Wonder who got the best one?

Mycroft ignored the spectacle, used to creating his own more subtle theatrics, and his thin daddy-long-legs limbs headed off southwards towards the Embankment and the river. John was used to having to keep up with lolloping Holmes's, and stoically yomped after him. Easier in London EC4 than in Helmand, he thought. He didn't have a rifle or a heavy backpack, and the temperature wasn't heading for a hundred. Nor were there IEDs hidden in the ground. 

John knew from another of Sherlocks evening perorations at 221B when they had discussed that fake Jack the Ripper set up, that in Queen Victorias time, the river Thames was much wider and shallower than it is now, and the river thronged with boats and traders. The building of the Embankment narrowed and deepened the Thames' channel. At the same time, a number of the previously open London rivers such as the Fleet were buried underground, partly to help prevent disease that they carried when used as latrines and dumping grounds by the rapidly expanding city population. 

Mycroft was apparently looking for the Thames outlet of the old Fleet river, whose course still flowed beneath the City streets, now more part of the sewerage system than the river network. He waited for John as he reached the Embankment and pointed up at a camera on the wall of an austere Portland stone building. 

'Do you see that, John? That's the last camera he was seen on. The only place not covered in this area before we would pick him up on another camera is the river outlet.'

John looked puzzled. 

'Why would he go there?'

'Its off camera reach. Tidal, only accessible at certain times of day. My guess would be that drug dealers use it, hence my brother heading here. Like a bee to a honey pot. Sherlock is fascinated by bees, so he would appreciate the analogy, though of course his honey comes in small paper packets of white powder rather than novelty hive shaped glass jars. ' 

Of course, thought John, drugs. Shit. Mycroft merely shrugged resignedly. He'd had twenty five years of this, John thought, and couldn't blame him for his resorting to cynicism. It was probably the only way to cope and not entirely wash your hands of little brother. 

The two men peered over the ornate cast iron painted railings down the granite stone walls to where the river now flowed high and strongly. No chance of getting down there for some hours. The Thames had a notoriously strong tidal flow. It would be at least six hours before the entrance to the river conduit was clear. A dead end. They had missed the tidal window and had no way of knowing if Sherlock had scored and was drowned down there or had been taken. The reports from the Barbican surveillance would be crucial.

'We will head straight to the Barbican.' Mycroft sounded flat but unsurprised. 

.........

The two men returned to the limousine, only to find it had now been replaced by several ordinary saloons John had seen parked in the Temple as they walked through. Less conspicuous for approaching the Barbican, he guessed, but once he got in, he realised they were clearly government cars as they were bristling with covert equipment. Johns own kit, that which he didn't have on his person, had also been transferred to one of the cars, and he and Mycroft got into the second car. Agents manned the lead and rear cars. 

They arrived at the Barbican rear in Beech Street around fifteen minutes later. 

The agents took up positions, on rooftops, balconies of cooperative but confused residents (including a former Lord Chief Justice and several retired MPs) and John and the remaining two agents discussed strategy with Mycroft. 

'They arrived back here with Sherlock several hours ago according to this report.'

'So he did get abducted. What state was he in? Did they hurt him?'

'According to the surveillance reports, he was semi conscious and seemed to have a number of injuries consistent with being beaten, mainly by kicking. There was also evidence of some self defence injuries.'

'Im going to kill them. All four of them.' 

'I would really rather you didn't, John. There are wider issues at stake here than this operation. If you kill all the targets today, we may never know Morans whereabouts. That means you and Sherlock and many others will continue to be at risk indefinitely. You must control yourself. You are a military man.'

John choked back a rude response. Focus. Data. Think like Sherlock. But he didn't want to ask this one. 

'One more question, was there anything in his mouth? Did they gag him?' 

(Please let the answer be no please let the answer be no please please please).

'Yes, John, from our agents report he was gagged with some kind of fabric gag and then duct tape over his mouth. 

Johns eyes filled with tears

'The bastards....'

John wanted to tell Mycroft the truth; that he couldn't guarantee that he could control himself. The stakes were too high and his bad days in the army could come back to take him by the throat and make him not responsible for his actions. He thought he might run amok like a madman once he got in there.

Mycroft had clearly perceived the struggle without John saying a word. He nodded and then signalled to the driver, who clicked a button. A phone rang from the armrest next to John. Mycroft indicated he should answer it. 

'Hello?'

'Is that Captain John Watson?' 

'Yes, well retired. Doctor John Watson now. Can I help?'

He recognised the voice, but couldn't place it immediately in the extreme stress he was in.

'It's James. Major James Sholto. How are you, John?'

John was completely flummoxed. Sholto. His former CO. His former...well..more than CO. Why was Sholto ringing him, and why now? They were supposed to be conducting an operation to free Sherlock, not reminiscing about old times, of fumblings behind the mess tent in Camp Bastion or quick desperate liaisons in the showers.

He looked at Mycroft, who just nodded at John and then nodded back at the phone. 

'Um, I'm kind of OK, sir, but in the middle of something at the moment.'

'I know, John. Mycroft Holmes asked me to call you. I'm speaking to you now as your former CO. 

John, I'm going to order you to adopt some military backbone and discipline. 

You've been away from it for a little while and while it's understandable that your experiences have affected you, and that personal priorities have taken some hold, you need to see the wider picture here. The mission objectives need to be back into place at the top of your priority list. Do you understand, Captain?'

'Yes sir.' Sholtos voice shocked John back into his army persona.

'You also need to understand that in terms of this kind of security operation, Mycroft Holmes is your commanding officer for this operation. Do you understand that, Captain Watson?'

'Yes sir.'

'And you will follow his instructions to the letter.'

'Yes sir.'

'Without question?'

'Yes. Yes sir. Of course, sir.'

'Good man. I'm proud of you, John. I will hand you over back to Mycroft now. And John?'

'Yes sir?'

A pause.

'I observed you at your wedding, and I can see something of what there is between you and Sherlock Holmes, or what there could be. He must be an extraordinary man to deserve that level of love and esteem from you. 

I'm sorry, John, that I was too cowardly to be that person for you. Please don't think it meant nothing, or that I was ashamed of anything we did. Please just learn from my mistakes and my cowardice and have the courage to seize your happiness now. And don't let your fury compromise your ability to save him.'

John bit his lip hard and tried to stop his eyes blurring. Sholto was a man of very very few words and none of them emotional, that John had ever heard. It must have cost him a great deal to say this. His words hit home, hard. 

'Thank you Sir..... Sholto. You are right by the way. About Sherlock. I just hope I get the chance to tell him.' Johns voice cracked slightly.

'Thats quite alright, Captain Watson. I won't bother you again but I'm glad we were able to speak.'

'So am I, sir. Very glad.'

'Goodbye, John, and good luck.'  
'Thankyou, sir.'

And then he was gone. 

John knew that Sholto meant it when he said he wouldn't be in contact again. He'd handed over the esteem and love John had invested in him to Sherlock, recognising that he himself had missed his chance. 

John decided he was going to try make sure Sholtos name was cleared if it took Mycrofts help to do it. But Sholto wouldn't know. Must not know. John himself wouldn't contact him again.

John turned to Mycroft. 

'OK, that was very clever. Very good. You win. Your way, then. What do you need me to do?'

Mycroft gave him his briefing. 

Five minutes later, John was in position.


	5. Sherlocks POV

Sherlock had regretted leaving the flat almost as soon as he had slammed the door. Only pride and a feeling of being trapped like a pinned moth under the ferocity of Johns anger, of being labelled, blamed, condemned again for things that he only did just to keep coping, keep breathing, keep going, stopped him walking straight back into 221B and into the arms of John. Those arms that these days he dreamed of in the darkest hours of the night, when the shadows of his memory threatened to overwhelm him. The pride was enough to stop him doing it, to stop him returning to John, though. Unfortunate. In the circumstances.

As he walked, anger at John had been quickly overtaken by a deep sense of misery and growing dread as the gnawing teeth of his need for a fix was beginning to take control. It was inevitable that he would crave more of the drug now his system had lost the effects of his previous massive hit. He could think of nothing else. 

He was aware he was probably being watched by Mycrofts agents, so wasn't surprised that he spotted various shadows, as he strode through Londons night-time streets, all dark rubbish-strewn pavements, shabby buildings side by side with grand; ultra modern next to impossibly old. Through streets still following the mad chaotic lines of the medieval city, the city elders having rejected Wrens ideas for grand boulevards following the Great Fire of London. It made for a maddening navigation but a fascinating place to walk and to be able to lose yourself in history. Even the street names spoke of their medieval roles. Milk Street. Postmans Place. Threadneedle Street. Poultry. 

His mind digressed. 

The downside with being watched by your own side, is that it isn't really possible to spot when you are also being watched by the other side. You just have to hope your guys spot the other side and deal with them. Which they did, until the subject of scrutiny decides that actually, he really, really needs to score a lot of drugs right now, and is well practised in avoiding scrutiny when doing so. 

Thus it was that Sherlock was scrambling in an unusually undignified fashion down the metal staple rings set into the river wall of the Embankment some time later, in order to meet up with a drug dealer and acquire himself some instant relief from his troubles to clear his mind and rest his brain. His progress was made easier by the lack of his Belstaff coat, but he was shivering now. He missed it. 

In some ways perhaps being kidnapped at this point wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to Sherlock, although the consequential fallout from it certainly was. 

He was in such a state by the time he reached the tide-dependent drug den, that he was now looking not for plain cocaine this time, but a speedball of cocaine and morphine. Cocaine for the high, morphine to dull the low that followed. Self medication. He was aware of the serious health risks this posed, both intrinsically and also as he didn't have the same guarantees of purity as from his recently castrated Oxford dealers, but he was past caring. He just wanted to feel good and the pain to stop.

So the fact that as he started to climb down the ladder he was dragged off it from above by a gentleman who clearly didn't wish him well, did truthfully save him from acquiring and injecting a potentially lethal combination of illegal drugs. 

However, this was no well-wisher performing a civic and charitable duty, and Sherlock, upon being dragged to the top of the ladder rungs and over the railings onto the Embankment, felt a heavy blow to the back of his head, and a sharp scratch as a needle was jabbed into his arm. 

He wondered what chemical cocktail he had been gifted this time. He didn't entirely lose consciousness, but looked on as a helpless witness to his own beating as several more men appeared, wearing combat boots which they took turns to use to kick him in his ribs, abdomen and knees. He felt several ribs break. Not for the first time in his life, but familiarity didn't improve the sensation. 

He thought about John, and the will he had made shortly after John and Mary's wedding. The first one he'd ever agreed to make. Leaving everything he owned to John, apart from some small bequests to Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson, and a small cottage in Somerset which he had left to an army veterans charity he knew John had started a standing order to, along with a legacy which would enable its alteration and ongoing upkeep as a respite holiday home for severely injured army veterans. 

The assets in his estate were alien to him, he had little control over most of it, due to his past and current divergence from acceptable deemed behaviour for responsible control of a trust fund, there was a lot of 'it' to control. Millions. None of it earned by him, just a toxic millstone. Especially toxic was his share of the family home. 

Sherlock hadn't been back there once, not since he left for Oxford. When he infrequently met his parents, it was on neutral ground. Going back to the family home meant revisiting the precise scene of his abuse and the horror of the memories was just too strong. He had gone close by once, but had a panic attack and had turned around and gone straight back to London. That day triggered one of the three overdoses Lestrade had scraped him up from. 

So his parents, who still blamed themselves for being taken in by Jonathon Langs charm and lies, understood, and facilitated his suggestions of neutral meeting places. And didn't insist he came home for Christmas and other family get togethers. He was grateful for that. But they had insisted on continuing to live there and it remaining in the estate. The Holmes family had been there for centuries, and Sherlock, much loved though he was, was but one name in a family tree of Holmes living there that extended behind the mists of written records. 

And he resented his weakness, the infantile nature of it, that he couldn't overcome the repellence of the smells of the place, the furniture, the rooms there that spoke to him of fear and pain and hatred. To go there was to re-live his own death, Williams death. He was reborn, so long as he stayed away.

He'd made the will at the time he had, because the run up to Johns wedding was when Sherlock Scott Holmes truly acknowledged the fact that he was no longer wholly driven by his work; that he no longer really cared that sentiment was a disadvantage, and that even if he could never have him for his own, even if he had lost him for good, he loved John Watson. Loved his mind and his heart, and, if he ever got the chance, would worship his body until the day they both returned to being atoms in new forms in the earth.

He hadn't told Mycroft about the will, but he'd had no choice but to go through the Holmes family solicitors because of the complexities of the trust, and the scale of the estate, and he had gloomily assumed (entirely correctly of course) that the normal strictures of absolute client confidentiality did not apply to the British Government (minor members), and that Mycroft Holmes was aware not only of the wills existence but also all of its contents. He was grateful that Mycroft had not brought the matter up, though not grateful enough to tell him that.

The thought of John, his family, relations, friends, being comfortable and worry free financially, made his current fragile position much more bearable, and gave him a warm feeling in his stomach. Though he knew he would not be welcome as their sons partner. What John had told him of Harry's experience told him that, and for their other child to do so too. He suspected they would say things and might throw things and might be violent. 

Maybe John would get some better clothes, he mused, his mind wandering. Sherlock had always thought Johns strong, scarred body deserved better than the truly dreadful rags he wore most of the time. Some of them were so unpleasantly laden with artificial fibres, he could practically feel the static electricity. As a chemist he admired the scientists who created these modern materials, but they did make one itch and sweat, and he despaired at Oxford of his fellow scientists who seemed to work on the basis that 'We invented it so we'll bloody well wear it. And in pastel swirls, to display the power of computerised knitting technology.' A crime against all standards of decency.......He knew his thoughts were rambling now. If he survived this (did he want to? Yes, because John and reasons), he would buy John some clothes, ones that made him look the man he was.

Thoughts of John made his possible impending fate less unwelcome, except for the regret of what might have been between them, but clearly not enough to stay awake. Maybe that was ok, he thought, as the blackness roared and rose, maybe it was good. It was cheaper than the drugs, and didn't involve grubby bouts of painful and coercive sex, at least not yet. Though he was having some trouble breathing now with the broken ribs. Six? He thought perhaps six. He really should try to stay awake. But he was losing the battle. 

One more punch to the face came, which he really felt to be more than a little gratuitous under the circumstances, and that was it and he drifted away. As a result he wasn't awake when they gagged him with the strip of cloth and the duct tape, which was a blessing of sorts. Knowledge of that particular horror awaited him when he woke.


	6. Storming the Barbican

The route into flat 41 Fellowes House was decided. There was no possibility of getting to the flat via the stairs or lift unchallenged, added to which the public nature of the walkway access meant too high a risk of collateral damage to civilians. Instead, they would go in from above, abseil from the flat roof of the flats three floors above and plunge straight in through the floor to ceiling windows of flat 41, the ones facing in towards the Barbican lake. 

John was very familiar with the technicalities of what they were going to attempt. No boy who wants to join the British army in recent decades hasn't at one time or another become pretty obsessed with the 1981 raid by SAS Special forces on the Iranian embassy in the heart of Central London, the exterior shots of which were broadcast live on television as the black clad commandos abseiled down the building and smashed their way through the floor to ceiling windows into the building, where the siege terrorists had started to murder their captives. Books and films had followed, and the near textbook operation was a model for many future operations worldwide.

One disadvantage of this operation, unlike the embassy case, was the small size of the target property. No chance of getting into empty rooms unnoticed. Assuming they managed to get into position without being detected, once they swung at the windows they were sitting ducks and Sherlock as the sole hostage was at enormous risk. Assuming he was still alive, John thought gloomily. He couldn't stand to lose him again. They would have to rely on the surprise factor and their smoke bombs and stun grenades to give them the advantage, and pray to their respective gods (the special forces were a multicultural gang) for their blessing. Plus their body armour. 

John felt a tap on the shoulder. Mycroft. He leaned over to hear what the man had to say. There wasn't long now.

'John. I won't be in there with you. Legwork....not my area, as you know.'

'So I wanted to express my gratitude to you for trying to do this, to get Sherlock out of there. And also to say, that I understand it may not be possible to retrieve him alive, and that if that is not the case, that you should know that I will still be grateful, and that I know my brother would be too. 

Equally, should matters not go happily in respect of your own safety, you ought to be aware that I have already made arrangements to ensure your family are comfortably provided for and that they will be well looked after.'

John looked surprised, but grateful, and nodded.

Mycroft did not mention Sherlocks will. There would be time enough for that if the worst happened; and if it didn't, Sherlock would no doubt prefer that if anyone told John, it was him. 

But Sherlock hadn't made plans for if it was John who died, not Sherlock. The thought of that happening probably didn't occur to him, or if it did, he avoided the thought. So Mycroft had dealt with that omission. He took a great deal of pride in ensuring that such matters were dealt with properly, neatly, correctly. There was no benefit in chaos after tragedy. 

John had been aware of the gravity of what they were about to do, but Mycrofts words still hit home hard. Before he could respond, however, there was a sound in Mycrofts earpiece and once he had finished listening, Mycroft paled slightly. 

New intelligence. Our voice recognition analysts have been examining the records we've obtained from through wall surveillance microphones. We now think one of the four hostiles in there is Moran. 

John looked grim. A bigger opportunity, then. Get Moran himself. Made killing the targets more of an option, as they didn't need them to lead them to Moran. But what about Sherlock? What were they doing to him? The risk of him having come to serious harm was surely increased if he was in Morans hands already. 

All John could think of now was about executing the plan flawlessly. He reached into his pocket and took out his army dog tags. He wasn't wearing them to avoid anyone using them to strangle him. But he'd wanted them there, they had been with him throughout his army career, his rehab. He pressed his lips to them, then shoved them back deep into his pocket of his black fatigues. 

'Let's go'

\-------

Up on the roof, which gave an impressive view of the eastern part of Central London, especially the Tower of London (minus one James Moriarty complete with crown), and eastwards along the river towards Greenwich and the Observatory, the wind was blowing harder than at ground level. Damn. Abseiling was easier in calm conditions. However it was a relatively short distance and they were all experienced. And it was dry. 

John and the three other soldiers stood ready, their belays prepared and ropes firmly secured to the concrete cooling tower chimney on the roof. 

On the signal from the lead, a lean and slight person whose rank and name John had not been give, but whom he was told to refer to as A (the other three being B, R and M, chosen for their easily differentiated sounds when spoken), the four men silently slipped over the edge of the roof and down towards their goal. 

Many Barbican flats have balconies facing the lake, and a total of three elderly lady residents of the larger flats noticed the men descending from the rooftop from their balconies facing no 41 Fellowes house across the lake. Thankfully, two of them blithely assumed, having watched far too many US TV series with scenes of skyscrapers, that this was the new super efficient window cleaning regime. 

The third lady, however, was the retired principal of an Oxford all women's college. Unbeknownst at the time to her happily oblivious former students, who had thought her a dear old twinkly eyed duffer ex-civil service pen-pusher, she also happened to be the former head of M16, Britains secret foreign intelligence service. And she knew exactly what she was seeing. 

Not that Mycroft had briefed her. Though she knew him, knew him well. She approved of his methods, though her tastes had perhaps been a little more ruthless even than his. She kept her hand in occasionally, still, when required. Cross border operations were so much easier when you fitted no-ones profiling. And patchwork and needlework projects were so useful for concealing any manner of materials. Her fingers flew lightly over her latest work in progress, a patchwork cot cover. The pieces were hexagons, a pattern of honeycombs, and she was adding embellishments of crewel work bees in relief in black and gold. She admired bees, their organisation, industry, and how they all played their assigned role for the greater good of the hive. 

She didn't need to be briefed on what she was seeing today, of course, she could see the (silky? sticky? Never been entirely sure which) fingerprints of Six all over this one. They did look a little hurried though, she thought? They must have learned some new intelligence to make the stakes higher and the timescale more pressured. She sipped her large iced gin and tonic, refocused her field glasses and reflected that Wednesdays were a lot more interesting than usual. She wouldn't be at her ladies swimming club at the gym in the Cannon Street railway arches this afternoon. She could make up for it on Friday. 

..........

Up on the wall of the brutalist concrete building, the four figures descended swiftly and silently like spiders down the wall. Without hesitation, on reaching the first floor balcony, they crouched, signalled to one another, threw grenades and smoke charges towards the window and waited the couple of seconds before they detonated. 

There was a blast and a cloud of smoke and the men moved in, guns pointing in towards the gaping jagged crater where the picture window had been. Muffled noises came from within the flat. They moved in and scanned the living room. 

Two men. Neither of them Moran. Neither of them Sherlock. That was not good.  
Both men were armed but the intruders had managed to maintain the element of surprise. The targets went for their weapons and before they could do so, B shot one of them in the shoulder. John shot the other in the knee. Both went down, and R and M secured them with gags and cable ties. 

John, A and B moved on to clear the rest of the flat which John knew from studying the floor plans comprised a bedroom and bathroom. Nothing else, the kitchen was open plan to the living room and retained the original white and silver stainless steel Barbican units. So retro they were almost cool again, they cried out for menus of prawn cocktail, Chicken Kiev and Black Forest gateau.

The bedroom was empty. Not even any bedclothes. Only the bathroom, them, and John could already hear sounds from within it. There was no option but to go in. John knew that Moran might well kill Sherlock as they did so. But there was no bloody option. No alternative.

They checked for any obvious booby traps, stood back and then A took a small ram to the door. It burst open and revealed Moran bending over a moaning prone figure in the bath, with another man, one of Morans, firing at them from almost point blank range. A and B opened fire on him, killing him, and John ran forward.

He should have shot Moran then. But he didn't, instead he reached for the slumped figure lying in the bath. He heard a groan from the body, a terrible groan, just at the same moment as Moran plunged a hunting knife into his torso and John collapsed like a stone into the bath with crimson lifeblood flowing, actually glugging into the bath and flooding in a horrific sea of scarlet over the bound, gagged and tortured Sherlock beneath him. 

Several seconds later, Moran fell, dead, to the floor, efficiently shot in the head by the admirable A. 

Time froze.  
\---------

The backup was into the flat within seconds. The targets bodies were removed immediately, and discreetly, along with the two injured prisoners. 

John was assessed as critical and very unstable. His lung had been punctured, and there was massive internal bleeding which was threatening to kill him before he ever reached a hospital. All they could do was try to staunch the blood and get him into the ambulance as quickly as possible. Barts was nearest. 

Sherlock was less seriously injured physically, and his life was not in danger, but his injuries were crueller, speaking of prolonged mistreatment. There were burn marks on his neck and arms from some kind of electrical charges and raw wounds from handcuffs. Ribs broken, wrist broken, several fingers. Dried blood was caked running from each nostril and there was a large open wound on his head. The soles of his feet were raw and bleeding, from an unknown cause. 

John would have been airlifted but it was quicker to go by road for the short distance to Barts. A police escort with blues and twos made sure they made the quickest possible progress. Sherlocks ambulance followed directly behind. 

Back at the Barbican, the commandos filed into the back of large unmarked white high roofed van parked in Beech Street. They removed their balaclavas. B, R and M were revealed as burly military types, all testosterone and competitiveness. Their leader, a slighter figure, removed the balaclava and as she did, long dark hair cascaded down her back. Removing the body armour revealed a shapely dark clad figure.

Bidding her men farewell and thanks, the figure we better know as 'Anthea' slipped out of the van and approached Mycrofts unmarked car, parked some way along the road. He was casually reading the latest Barbican programme, remarking as she approached that it was a treat to have enticed Sir Simon Rattle back from the Berlin Phil for the autumn series of concerts. She smiled fondly, crouched down by the wing mirror of the passenger seat where Mycroft sat, and deftly began to reapply smoky shades of eyeshadow and mascara. Mycroft looked like a very proud man. He knew to wait until the ritual was over. Once she was satisfied, her beauty restored, Anthea smiled at Mycroft. He spoke.

'Thank you, my dear. Excellent work. Doctor Watson did very well, but as we suspected, he was exposed when faced with choosing between taking out Moran and rescuing Sherlock. But as a team effort, he was first class, you all were.'

'It was a pleasure, Mycroft. I enjoyed the break from the office. Polishing the tea spoons and filing the double agent profiles in duplicate filing cabinets can get a little tedious. I wish I got out on more day trips. I just hope today's work was not in vain. How are they?' 

'Sherlocks physical injuries are bad but not life threatening; however they are all from beating and torture, so the psychological situation is of most concern. It isn't established yet whether there are any...internal injuries.' 

Mycroft didn't need to explain what he meant by that last part. Like Sherlock, Mycroft had no religious faith whatsoever, but he silently prayed now that his little brother had not had to face that particular horror a second time in his life. And Anthea was perhaps his closest companion. He hadn't discussed that aspect of his family's past with her, but she knew virtually everything. The qualities that made her an exceptional operative also meant there were few secrets safe from her. She made no judgement on Sherlock or Mycroft for how they had handled it. In her line of business, there were few absolute truths or definitive answers. 

'Doctor Watson...' Mycrofts face darkened. 

'Well, Anthea, you saw him for yourself. They were losing him on the way to the hospital. I just can't think how it will be if he doesn't make it. I'm not a heartless man, I would of course grieve for his family and for the man himself, but as you know, my sole and my only priority is my brother. If John Watson does not live, I am certain Sherlock will have no desire to. 

Let us proceed to Barts, my dear, and hope that miracles do happen in the City on a Wednesday. And that the traffic is kind.'


	7. Survival

John was taken immediately to the adult trauma unit on arrival at Barts, and after a very swift triage assessment underwent emergency scans. 

He was rushed straight into surgery, with the aim of stopping the internal bleeding and supporting his breathing until such time as his airways were clear and the pain under control enough to allow him to take over again himself. His vitals were still all over the place but there was little choice other than to take urgent action. 

Greg Lestrade met Mycroft and Anthea at the hospital visitors entrance. Mycroft had rung ahead to brief the Met Commissioner about why he would not be launching a police investigation into a multiple shooting in the Barbican, and then called Greg, to ask him to come to Barts. 

Greg had paled when he had heard what Mycroft had to say. Not always able to avoid stating the obvious, and with a history of paternal care for Sherlock over many years, he was very frightened for him now. And very worried to hear about John's condition.

'If John dies, that's it, isn't it? Game over for Sherlock?'

As Greg spoke out loud, articulating out loud the thoughts Mycroft had kept locked private in his own mind, a strange kind of peace washed over him and settled into his mind. He stopped fighting against the fear that had plagued him for the past quarter of a century when trying to protect his brother, and now simply accepted what fate would ordain. It was no longer in his hands, no longer within his power, to save his brother.

Greg was right. If John lived, Sherlock had his best chance he would ever get to be truly happy and to live a long life. If John died, Sherlock would, in all likelihood, in due course, take his own life. 

Mycroft didn't know why acknowledging this gave him a calm sensation. Perhaps it was that he was finally just coming to terms with fate, and that his brothers wish might not be his own; that there were some circumstances in which Mycroft was not all powerful and in which Sherlock might not want to live. And perhaps that was not OK but neither was the alternative, if the pain was too great to bear?

He nodded to Greg. Like an emperor at the gladiatorial games. 

'John's in theatre. They should have assessed Sherlock by now. Let's go in and find out what the picture is with him. I see no point speculating about Doctor Watsons prognosis until we know more.' 

..........

As Mycroft and his entourage reached the door of Sherlocks private room, the assigned doctor asked Mycroft to step into a side room. Anthea and Greg sat outside in the corridor, Anthea looking bizarre in night combat gear combined with perfectly applied makeup and glossy long dark hair. Greg, with the same crumpled handsome look he sported for much of the time, but this time with a much more deeply lined furrow to his brow than usual. Neither said anything. Just waited, and worried, and hoped.

Once inside the family room, the doctor briefed Mycroft on Sherlocks injuries, which were much as observed. The injuries had been caused by steel capped boots, knives, gravel (to the soles of the feet), metal handcuffs combined with partial suspension from the wrists, electricity from repeated improper close range use of a Taser, and manual breaking of the fingers. 

His wrist had been broken by another kick. There was water in his lungs, probably from water boarding. A risk of pneumonia, especially given his general poor physical condition, risk of infection, some damage to major organs though that was likely not too serious or permanent. Likely ongoing psychological effects. 

There was, however, said the doctor, no evidence of sexual assault. 

Mycroft never thought he would be so glad to hear a list of torture injuries in his life. They washed over him. Those could mend. Sherlock had faced many of them before, and was remarkably resilient to plain physical injury, considering his frail frame. Rape trauma, on the other hand, for this particular victim, could not ever heal. Not again.

Quite unexpectedly, and for the first time since he sat in a police interview room as a nineteen year old, and in one terrible moment fully realised what the police were telling him had happened to his little brother, his William, his Bee, he began to weep. But this time, unlike that, these were tears of relief, of stress release. 

The doctor, who assumed he was crying from distress, because of the catalogue of injuries, gently placed a hand on his shoulder and after a little while walked to the door and asked Greg and Anthea to come in. 

They entered the room and both wordlessly hugged Mycroft, the man nobody ever hugged; and then heard Mycroft whisper 'He wasn't raped this time'. They both hugged him tighter, Greg now knowing for sure what he had long suspected, and Anthea just happy beyond everything, that she had got there in time for Sherlock, and, it seemed, for Mycroft too. 

If only John could pull through.....

\--------

John was not having a good time. He remembered nothing after he saw the flash of the knife from Moran and tried to raise his gun, too late, too late, stupid, so so stupid, and then felt himself falling and crashing into a bathtub straight onto the dead body of his friend, his love, his life. 

Just as the pumping blood loss took him under, and his blood pressure crashed, he heard the faint sound of the corpse moaning. Or had he?

.........

It wasn't until many hours, perhaps more than a day and a night later, after the dash to Barts, the operations, the intensive care stabilisation, that it occurred to a remarkably just about still alive, and eventually now half conscious John, that most corpses tended not to moan, as a general rule at least. He didn't like to be black and white about such things, but eventually concluded, for now, that Sherlock's spirit must have started to leave his body and John had been witnessing his raising to the Almighty.

John, who was now sewn up and dosed with a biblical amount of narcotic painkillers, was comforted by this thought, and conversed with the Risen Sherlock in his dreams for some hours. Out loud, a lot of the time. His breathing tube had been removed, although shortly the doctors would decide to replace it when he experienced difficulties breathing. But for now, it was gone.

So it was, that a horrified and white faced Molly Hooper, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, on a not very comfortable pastel coloured plastic chair, sipping vile coffee, witnessed the normally woolly jumpered mild smiley John Watson, not only declaring Sherlock to be the embodiment of the Risen Lord, who died to save all mankind, but also describing in quite extraordinary detail the parts of the said Corpus Christi that John would like to venerate in a particularly earthy and base fashion, complete with extensive anatomical terminology quite inappropriate save in detailed medical procedures. 

'Oh dear.' Molly squeaked, the tips of her ears bright red. 'Okay. He's doing well. Concentrate on that. Its good. It's the drugs talking. Maybe I should go and see Sherlock instead now...'. Though she wasn't sure she could look Sherlock in the face either, not now. Not after hearing - that. Did he know about all....that??

She left the room in a fluster and in the corridor met Greg who was coming to visit John, and also the doctor. 

'He's recovering consciousness' she said, and blushed. 'But he's got a filthy mouth on him. Some of those things he said he wanted to do aren't even physically possible, and they're most of them definitely not legal.' 

Greg frowned. 'Dont worry, you won't have to sit with him again. It's just the drugs. Don't feel threatened. It's not directed at you. He doesn't know what he's saying.'

'Not about ME, Greg. He was talking about Sherlock! About, well, them. John and Sherlock. And things. Obscene things!'

'Ahhh.' Greg smiled. 'Thats different. Perhaps John is being pumped full of truth serum, then....' 

Molly smiled weakly, long since resigned to her passion for Sherlock being in vain. And having given up her hopes entirely once she had seen the head of John pasted onto the Vitruvian Man before Johns stag night. She really hadn't needed now to also now know exactly in what ways John thought of Sherlock as a natural 'bottom' and how hard John wanted Sherlock to bite on his dog tags...

She shook herself, and then noticed that Greg looked tired. And sort of handsome, in a crinkly brown eyed salt and pepper sort of way. Kind, too. She knew he had a bit of a reputation with women, but she also knew that his faults were all displayed honestly, nothing hidden. Maybe she could cope with the beer and the football and the doughnuts? She thought she probably fancied him quite a bit more than she had previously thought? 

'Would you like a coffee, Greg? The doctor and nurse are with John now. And I need something, I think, to recover from the shock.' 

Greg smiled broadly. And they walked down to the coffee machine, chatting cheerily, until the pornographic rant faded a little from her memory.

\---------

Mycroft was with Sherlock. Who was now conscious, though clearly in much pain. 

Unlike John, he didn't get the benefit of copious free narcotics for his discomfort. As an ex-addict, he was strictly limited in the medication he was permitted. So no lewd potty mouthed outbursts for him. Instead, rubbish asprin, barely worth swallowing; and as a result now he was wincing at every movement. 

He was no longer drenched in the blood of his flatmate (blogger?friend? beloved amour? deeply desired one?) although there had been so much of the stuff, that the medical staff had so far just cleaned off the worst. Where there were indents on his body, and on bony Sherlock there were quite a few, there was Johns blood still on him. Between each rib, a streak of Johns life. He was glad about that. It wasn't the kind of body fluid sharing he'd been fantasising about......but anything, any aspect of John that was part of him, however temporary, was precious to him. 

He wished for once that he was fatter, so there would also be rolls of flesh and places to hide and keep more of John's blood, more significant deposits, to stop them wiping it away and throwing away the bloodied rags. It might be all he had left of him. The only trace for him to keep. If that was the case they could bury him with John, next to John. Touching John. And he would still have these traces of John upon him when they did it. If he could make it to the toilets there was a window catch high up and his pillowcases could be knotted together. The cleaners bucket could act as a step to be kicked away. Yes. This was a plan. Not parted from John.

He wouldn't tell them that. People got so worked up about the preservation of life. It was all just atoms, and they never died, just rearranged. They didn't understand, he wouldn't let John take that journey alone, never alone. If John died, so would he, he resolved. 

So Mycroft and Greg had been right. Sherlock had no fear and no qualm about dying in what he saw as the appropriate context. Even if that was a fear of a dead John being lonely.

Sherlock especially knew Mycroft wouldn't approve of his line of thinking so voiced none of it out loud. 

Instead he looked back at his weary older brother. He was always doing this, thought Sherlock. Sitting by a hospital bed, waiting for me to get better, to stop doing unacceptable things, to stop being a drag. He hates doing it. and I hate him for doing it. 

He'd remembered he'd watched (or rather, sat through protesting bitterly, the blasted thing went on for hours, for WEEKS), some TV historical drama series with John once, all white tie and stiff upper lips: 'Parade's End' it was called. John had liked it as he was interested in World War One military history. Or so he claimed, Sherlock thought he actually wanted to ogle the two beautiful women competing for the protagonists affections. 

The main protagonist reminded him of Mycroft in some ways. For Christopher Tietjens, the parade had ended, but happily; but Sherlock wasn't sure Mycroft ever wanted the parade to stop, would ever concede the game as being over and stand at ease. He knew very little about his brothers private life, except to know he kept it in a very hidden compartment of his life. Maybe Anthea was involved in it, but she was just as buttoned and discreet as big brother. Mycrofts surveillance fetish and levels of security meant there was no chance of dropping in unannounced or unnoticed and witnessing anything saucy.

Yet suddenly brought back from his rambling, and back contemplating suicide, a grey cloud descended into his brain, and suddenly Sherlock felt small and in fear, and in need of his brother.

'Myc?' 

Mycroft stiffened in surprise. 

Sherlock had never used that nickname since we were small. He must be going to plead for something, as when he was little and wanted that damn dog. The thing never liked me, but would let Sherlock do anything to it, dress it up, do experiments, anything. 

Or the large stuffed bee toy Mycroft had won from the fair that Sherlock pleaded for, and which led to his nickname, the one they didn't use. Or when he was very tiny, for Mycroft to stroke his hair each night after his bath as he went to sleep, as Mummy and Daddy were always away, and he said Nanny pulled at his hair when she did it, because she said his curls were all knotted. 

'John. John. Is he alive Myc? Is John alive?'

'Yes, Bee.'

Mycroft had not used Williams nickname since he changed his name after that terrible summer. He hadn't dared, in case.....But it seemed right to do so now. He saw Sherlocks eyes fill with tears. At worry about John, but also emotion at hearing Mycroft call him that.

Mycroft continued to speak as though he had said nothing unusual.  
'He is alive, though gravely ill. He is not yet out of danger, but he's stable and he's starting to recover consciousness. Molly and Lestrade saw him. They are re-sedating him, to let everything rest some more, as he's not completely able to breathe unaided. You can't see him yet.' 

Sherlocks face turned away from his brother, as the tears of pain and frustration and fear burned their way down his bruised and cut face. Once they started, they didn't stop. Sherlock never cried in front of anyone. Unless he was being tortured, when he cried in defiance because while he was crying, he couldn't talk, couldn't tell them anything useful to them.The tears were weapons to defy his captors. 

.........

After the Lang disaster, the young William/Sherlock had withdrawn completely from all physical contact, especially from those closest to him. Strangers seemed safer to him, than those he was conditioned to trust and who had betrayed him either by abusing him, or failing to protect him even just by their absence. 

Mycroft, one of the guilty absent, especially, had felt the loss of his touch, of his little brothers hugs and kisses. It wasn't just the name change that had made him feel bereaved.

Now, so very much later for both of them, Mycroft took a large spotted handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, unfolded its neatly pressed sections, and gently wiped away the tears from this gaunt, precious, battered face. 

Once the tears were gone, just the sore red shadows remaining on the skin, he watched his brothers eyes gradually close, frowning as he winced frequently from the pain of his injuries. Once they were shut, and the breathing was more regular, Mycroft gently stroked his brothers greasy and unkempt curls of hair, still matted with Sherlock's own blood mixed with Johns. 

'Brother mine', he whispered, and hugged his broken body gently to him, 'Bee, my Bee. Courage, mon petit frere. Hold on.' 

\--------- 

John lay quietly and silently in his bed following the earlier crisis crash which had arisen shortly after Molly left. Now the hospital machinery was once again helping him to breathe, and his body to circulate the pints and pints of strangers blood so selflessly donated so that this man, this soldier, this doctor, would live, and in doing so, another would choose to live on also. 

John didn't know it, but a common blood type, and Morans choice of a location close to a major hospital for his hideout, had made the slim difference between life and death. It was that simple and brutal. Now, survival depended on Johns own will to live. 

It was twenty four hours after he had been resedated that he was deemed stable enough that the doctors once again gave his body a chance to start working for itself. The sedation was gradually reduced. He began to breathe for himself again.

..........

Sherlock had finally been given sleeping medication that night despite the addiction risks, because he had slept for barely half an hour, and was inconsolable and agitated long into the night. This was despite Mycroft's efforts, continuing to stroke Sherlocks brow, sometimes with a damp cloth, other times just with his hand. His long, graceful, pale fingers brushing the damp, even paler skin.

But even Mycroft had admitted defeat in the end. His brother was making his injuries worse, tossing and turning and shouting himself hoarse, and even for someone who rarely slept much, he had after all been subject to professional torture for over twenty four hours solid, and he urgently needed to rest, if he was to cope with the physical and mental shock of seeing John again tomorrow.

So at two in the morning, Mycroft had shaken his head, kissed his brothers cheek, and called in the doctors. Sherlock had been restrained by Mycroft and the medical staff, which made him cry out again, and injected with sleeping sedative. 

He had, as a result, slept for eight hours straight, and Sherlock woke the next morning in a much calmer if groggy frame of mind, to find a doe eyed Molly Hooper at his bedside, fidgeting with the toggles on her chunky cardigan (were those really squirrels with nuts in appliqué? Lord save us), and the rainbow hair bobble on her pony tail.

'Hallo, you', she said softly. 'We sent Mycroft off to the relatives room in the early hours, to get some rest. He was exhausted, asleep with his head slumped over you. I said I would sit here in case you woke before he returned. How do you feel?'

Sherlock felt epicly awful, but was a consummate liar.  
'Better. Fine. But I must see John. I'm not being fobbed off any more.'

'I think that might be possible soon, they are taking his sedation levels down more this morning. Though I'm not sure about the logistics. Your feet are a mess and you can't wheel your own wheelchair. Someone will have to come to push you.'

Sherlock looked at Molly. Fierce, loyal Molly. He felt tenderness and fondness for this woman, and love too, a protective love he would have had for the sister he had yearned for but never had; and a profound gratitude for the role she played in enabling him to save Johns, Lestrades and Mrs Hudson's lives, in and after the Fall.

Fierce Molly was now looking at Sherlock oddly. 'Aha', he thought, able to think clearer now, 'a Molly lecture is coming'. He hoped it would involve minimal slappage. Molly could get a little too free with her lady slaps. He didn't mind them normally, though he did wonder how she would view it if a man did it to a woman?; but primarily he wanted to avoid it today as his face was so very sore...

Molly cleared her throat and shuffled a little on her chair. Her face screwed up a little. Like a hamster nibbling a pine kernel. Or perhaps, given her attire, a squirrel with a pine kernel?

'Sherlock, I think you and John need to, well, you know. Be more open and honest with one another. After - all - this. There might not have been a day to do this. Both of you nearly died. John still could. But I don't think so. He's doing well now.

You know I've always, .......you know I really, well; well, I really, really loved you. But I know that's no good, and maybe it's not real love if it's not returned and it would never be any good for you, and that's fine, really it is. 

But Sherlock, I know that he loves you, and I think you love him back. I know I can't have you, so you owe me something for that, and for all the body parts, especially the unofficial ones. You owe me making sure that you don't screw this up with John, that you treat him well and and be happy together and get old together and......just don't waste this chance, please Sherlock? Don't go all druggy, and pissy with everyone, and don't stamp on the loyalty and love you inspire in people. Because you do do that. Inspire that. And tread on it. John deserves better.'

Molly looked very nervous once she'd finished. Her hands twisted together. Nice hands, she looked after them, lots of hand cream and regular manicures. Even though they were usually in gloves. Like Sherlocks. 

She rarely made long speeches and certainly not ones like this. 

Sherlock looked at her steadily. Pressed his lips together hard. Thinking about what to say, to respond to that extraordinary outburst. The mouse that roared, he thought.

Finally he nodded. He didn't say anything. Molly wasn't certain if it was a nod to say 'I heard you' or a nod to say 'I heard you and you are right and I am going to follow your advice.' Not her business to ask. She'd know soon enough which it was.

Molly blushed at her own bravery. She leaned forward and more daring than she'd ever been, she softly kissed Sherlocks bruised and cut cheek. 

'By the way, Greg's asked me out to dinner.' 

She skipped out of the room before Sherlock could form a sarcastic response.


	8. Reunion

Lestrade was designated driver for pushing Sherlocks wheelchair to Johns room. Molly had gone back to the morgue and her beloved bodies, happy that she had plucked up the courage to speak her mind. 

And Mycroft had made himself scarce, partly due to some inconvenient political issues involving the Home Secretary and a BDSM scene party, which in the good old days no one would have needed to know about, but which thanks to smart phones and the internet had the trussed up genitalia of one of her Majesty's chief ministers plastered (and only sometimes pixelated) over every smartphone and TV screen in the land. 

Mycroft had previously told Simon to be careful; sadly his advice had not been heeded, as so often. He despaired; he, Mycroft had his own....private interests, but he was scrupulously discreet and made sure his partners were too. The art of discretion seemed to be a stranger to these ambitious political types; in the end, they had only themselves to blame.

But Mycroft also left, because he could do no more at present. This thing could go one of two ways. It was up to Sherlock and John to choose. A bit like the cabbies pills with the serial suicides. One way led to life and happiness; the other to disaster. 

Mycroft, back in his office, leaned back in his leather chair, steepled his fingers and sighed. World events and political scandals were child's play in comparison to family. He would need to brief Mummy this evening; she was threatening to visit but he had managed to put her off so far. He tried to insulate them from Sherlocks troubles; of course they weren't stupid and they knew things were often not good, but they were intelligent enough to know that there was little they could do and that the battles that Sherlock fought were demons only he could face. And that he didn't want their presence. He tolerated Mycroft but barely. They, his parents, had been closest and most able to protect him when 'it' happened. And they hadn't done it, hadn't realised. So the absence blame was greatest for them. And because they loved their boy, they didn't hate him back, just grieved for their William. And hoped for their Sherlock.

So it was Greg who was pushing a grumpy and complaining Sherlock in a wheelchair through the squeaky corridors. The latter complaining because the chair was uncomfortable (it's not the chair, it's your knife wounds, Sherlock) and Greg wasn't pushing it fast enough (only so fast you can go when there are swing doors every few metres, Sherlock). But they eventually reached the door of Johns room.

Greg looked at Sherlock. 

'Okay, mate, this is where I'm going to leave you.'

'You're not coming in?'

'Ah, nope.' Greg laughed. I have a pressing engagement with a proper cup of coffee and a certain young lady who works in the morgue; and besides, I do not relish being the gooseberry between you two horrors.'

His expression softened. 

'He's still really poorly, Sherlock. Try not to overwhelm him, OK? You can be quite....a lot to cope with, and John needs quiet and calm.' 

Sherlock bristled. 

'Yes thankyou for that Graham, I am quite capable of appropriate behaviour.'

'Its Greg. As you know perfectly well. And yes you are, but not always, and I'm just reminding you. See you later, you pompous git.' 

With that Greg ruffled - dared to ruffle - Sherlocks hair (still greasy and unkempt), and opening the door slightly to Johns room so Sherlock could wheel himself the short distance in, Greg walked away whistling cheerily. 

.........

Sherlock pushed the wheelchair forward, his injuries making it difficult to manage, and rolled clumsily into the room. 

The first thing that struck him was that there were too far many wires and tubes attached to John. This was unacceptable. Something would need to be done about it. But at least the breathing tube was gone and John was breathing steadily and unaided, at last. Sherlock wondered when they'd taken it out. He knew it was sometime today, so not long. 

The second thing that struck him as he neared the bedside was how small John looked. Curled up, like a hedgehog. He was sleeping, and his small hands were clenched into fists. Angry, Sherlock thought. He's angry. Fighting it. That, he concluded, was good. 

Sherlock was right up to the hospital bed now and despite being handicapped by the splints and plaster on the broken fingers on his left hand as well as the plaster cast on his fractured right wrist, Sherlock raised his right hand clumsily and reached out and touched Johns face. His brow, his nose, his eyelids. Then his cheek. He tried to make sure his cast didn't catch Johns face as he did so.

At the last touch, Angry John smiled in his sleep, and a small pink tongue stuck out from between his lips, just a little. John had always accused Sherlock of being catlike, but cats were the only creatures, apart from John, that Sherlock had seen do this. 

It was one of his very favourite John habits, along with John wearing his army tags (these were now safely back round Johns neck, Mycroft had seen to it); John rolling his eyes fondly at Sherlock; and, best of all, when Sherlock had kissed John, and John had responded and Sherlock felt like his insides had dissolved into melted chocolate. Though even then the shadows of past things were never far below the surface and Sherlock knew that he had to deal with that. Later. 

The esteemed tongue retreated back into Johns (delicious, precious, perfect) mouth. Sherlock was jealous. 

He could wait no longer. He leaned forward, wincing at the pain from his ribs, and whispered:

'John'.

For a moment there was no reaction other than a slight cross frown.

Then there was a sigh, and a puzzled frown, and then a tiny sliver of navy blue eye was open and looking straight at Sherlock, who promptly collapsed into Johns lap, grabbing his (small, perfect, venerated) hands and unfurling the clenched fingers one by one and running his fingers along all the veins on his hand, making sure they were all full of John's blood despite Sherlock wearing most of it. 

'Hi.'

John speaking. The voice was faint, very rasping. Due to the breathing tube having been in, it must be that. It didn't sound like John. Sherlock stayed face down in Johns lap.

The voice came again, a little stronger this time. More John-like. 

'Do you think you can look at me now, Sherlock?' 

There was a muffled noise from Johns lap, then Sherlock lifted his head from where it was buried deep and stared up at him, drinking in the sight of Johns gaze like bread being given to a starving man. 

'I'd really like some water?' The raspy voice again.

With shaking hands, Sherlock found a bottle of mineral water and a straw, and sat sideways on the edge of the bed. John had to help him in the end, the broken fingers and wrist meant he couldn't really grip the bottle, so John held it while Sherlock guided the straw between Johns lips. Jealous of the tongue, and now jealous of the straw.....

Once John had drunk a small amount, he exhaled heavily and lay back against the pillows, regarding Sherlock with weary satisfaction. 

'You're alive. I thought you were dead. In the bathroom, in the bath. I thought you were fucking dead again. 

I thought, he's dead and I've failed him. 

And then I couldn't focus and Moran got me. I meant to shoot. I should have, first, I could have. But I didn't, i failed, and I got stabbed. Like some stupid fucking petty street fight.'

Sherlock let him speak. His voice was still hoarse, more than a whisper but not John voice. John carried on but as he did so, tears began to leak from the corner of his eyes. 

I saw you in that bath and all the wounds, and it was my fault, because of the skull and me being a shit about it, and then you were gone and we couldn't find you and then you were there, in that flat, that bathroom with white tiles floor to ceiling like a fucking morgue, and you injured and...the state of you. And all I could think was 'Has it happened again? They've tortured him. Have they raped him as well?

And I couldn't function. Couldn't breathe. Everything just went into slow motion.

They had to do my job for me, Sherlock, the other guys had to kill Moran. It was my job and they had to do it for me. No wonder the army got rid of me. Fucking useless soldier.'

The tears of bitter regret were flowing freely now. John was looking away, inconsolable with frustration and shame. Tears and snot mixing together like a kid who hurts themselves doing something they really wanted to do but which all went wrong and they ended up falling off that wall and into those nettles and that broken glass that they didn't see but is always, always there. 

Sherlock couldn't deal with any more, and decided enough was enough. He grabbed a tissue and dipped it in the water to dampen it, and then gently wiped away the mess from Johns face. 

He took that face in his hands as best he could. It was like wearing plaster mittens. Tried to be gentle but it was hard when you couldn't feel through the plaster cast. 

'John. Listen to me. 

They didn't rape me. They might have been planning to, but they didn't. That's all that matters, John. Nothing else. And I could cope with all the other stuff. You know me, indestructible....it's not the first time I've been tortured and probably won't be the last....I'm just a bit battered, and will be for a while. 

You came in on a commando operation and you shot one of them. You were facing four of them in a confined space at point blank range and they had the advantage.

It was not your fault I was there, it was theirs. And mine as well, because I overreacted to your reaction to the skull. I knew it would be upsetting and that you would find it hard to understand and so when I told you I shouldn't have been upset by your reaction. I should have explained to you why I had it. 

And you were right, anyway. Not about having it, that's been......helpful. Possibly even saved my life a few times when I've ....well...thought things. But it shouldn't need to be so prominent, not in your face. I recognise now I need to step back from it a little. Maybe it can go on the top shelf of the bookcase. At the back of the shelf. I can see it if I need to but you're....quite short...so you won't have to look at it?'

He got a Look for that.

'John, please forgive me. You only didn't shoot Moran because you were trying to save me instead of protecting yourself.'

John was still not listening to him properly. Sherlock tried to think straight. And then said something which he never thought he could say. He said it now.

'John. If they had, you know, raped me. I would have come through it. If I had you. It would have been bearable. If I had you to come back to, after. Because they couldn't take that from me.'

Sherlocks faced screwed up with tension. He would never use something like this as a bargaining chip. He would get engaged to people, lie through his teeth, manipulate them and play with them, all to further his own interests, mainly solving cases or annoying his brother, whose overbearing scrutiny he had come to resent. But his history of rape and abuse: that was deadly serious. He had to hope John appreciated that the boy who cried wolf so often, wasn't lying this time.

John looked up from where his head had been in his hands. He gazed searchingly at Sherlock. 

Then he smiled. A small but wonderful John smile. 

'You really mean that don't you? You could actually go through - that, in order to come back to me? '

'I actually could. Would. If I had to.'

John couldn't believe that, it was too much. Too much. He started to cry again.

Then Sherlock was leaning clumsily over to John and kissing him, and they were kissing for only the second time in their entire lives, and what should have been a desperate passionate and frankly horny encounter was horribly compromised by Sherlocks many and varied injuries, and Johns only just starting to heal very serious ones. 

They settled for sweet, slow exploring kisses. Once their jaws were aching from that, Sherlock drew down Johns hospital bed covers and trailed feather like kisses from Johns neck to his shoulder scar (magnificent, doesn't seem to mind me touching it, that's very good), down to his nipple, (ooh he likes that, hmmm, interesting) and on down his chest to his navel, where Sherlock busied himself licking Johns tummy button and then down further stroking and licking the trail of golden hair leading to the promised land (hallo. This is fantastic), getting lower......and lower..........until John, feeling his injuries more out of the two of them and suffering from a truly monumental erection that was becoming almost painful, and also embarrassed by the knowledges that catheters are not really conducive to intimate relations, called a very reluctant but firm halt to proceedings. 

'Didnt you like it? I thought you were enjoying it. Am I doing it wrong? I'm not really familiar with preliminaries? If we are going to do all the sex then you need to enjoy it? John? What's wrong?'

Sherlock looked hurt and crestfallen. His own erection now flagged in line with his perceived rejection.

John wanted to giggle at the term 'all the sex'. Sherlock was so erudite in many ways but in the world of sex discussion he was like a bouncing puppy, all licks and enthusiasm and sometimes inappropriateness.

'Listen, Sherlock. That was bloody fantastic.'

John pulled the bedclothes down further so there was only the sheet covering him, to demonstrate to Sherlock exactly how fantastic Johns cock thought it all was. As he did so, there came the sound of St Mary Bow church bells sounding. The loud tolls of the bell gave him a shock and his dick twitched in time to the booming sound. 

'Oooooohhhhh.'

'Ooooh, indeed. I guess my dick is a Cockney. Cor blimey guvnor.'

Sherlock instantly cheered up. He couldn't take his eyes off the sheet though, and the coveted prize therein. He was actually licking his lips. Pervy bastard. John had to replace the other top covers to get Sherlocks mind back on track. And his own cock under control.

'So why are we stopping?' Sherlock looked confused, still.

John sighed.

'Firstly, you idiot, because I've barely come out of an induced coma. I'm still feeling very weak and very woolly. And a lot of movement is making me feel nauseous. And I still have a catheter hooked up. 

Secondly because my internal stitches are not going to cope with the sort of activity I have in mind for you, Private Holmes, until I am more healed....' 

Sherlocks eyes widened and he hissed gently. He became painfully aware that he had gone from flagging erection to raging hard-on almost instantly at the words. 

He wondered if John had done it deliberately? Sherlock was well aware of his weakness for matters military, and for playing a submissive role (though realistically he'd not had the opportunity to be anything other so maybe that was not the only way he could play?). His mind raced with the possibilities of a real relationship, with the only person he could imagine that being an option.

John didn't give him any clue. He continued as if he had said nothing unusual.

'And thirdly, less excitingly'.....John paused.

Before we get down and dirty in the bedroom department, you and I, Sherlock Holmes,need to sit down and have a serious conversation. It may not be sexy but we need to do it. Not only because I'm pushing 40 and have very...limited experience in the homosexual department...... At this, Sherlock looked puzzled and interrupted.

'What about Major Sholto? The way you looked at each other at the wedding. There was some business there, maybe even unfinished business. I'm not a fool, I know what I saw, John.'

Sherlock looked jealouser than a green eyed cat who's just had their fish supper nicked.

John regarded him steadily.  
'I said limited experience, Sherlock, not none.   
But nothing to compete with alley bin activities, if you catch my drift.'

'Ahh, ok. No anal.' Sherlock nodded furiously. 

He just came right out with it. That was Sherlock. Johns face went scarlet. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't be so blunt when they did get more intimate and announce it to the world. This was going to be, well, interesting.

'No anal.' (John felt embarrassed even saying it. John 'not gay' discussing this....Christ....). Then he slowly added:

'To date. None to date.....And Sholto is not unfinished business. He's very definitely finished business.'

Happy (smug?) look from Sherlock.  
'Ah.'

Soon, said smug look was wiped from his face. John hadn't finished.

We also need to talk about you, Sherlock. I'm not experienced with guys, but you've only had really terrible, bad experiences. That's more difficult in some ways, for both of us. We can't just go in the bedroom and let rip, not until we explore what activities are good, and what are triggers or off limits. There can't be a situation where we don't communicate well enough to know what's not OK. It's too high risk.

Sherlock frowned.   
'But I've done everything, since....Lang. No one else has been bothered about that? Can't we just 'let rip' and see how we go?'

John shook him by the shoulders. 

'Yep, you've done everything, and that's because you were too much of an idiot to insist, and they were exploiting you and they didn't care enough about you to try. Your experiences to date are irrelevant to a proper relationship. This isn't some casual thing. This is for real, Sherlock. And we get one go at getting it right.

Look, I know there are some things you've done since - back then - which I have absolutely no intention of us doing. For example: you giving me blow jobs. We won't be doing that, not now, probably not ever.'

Sherlock scowled. 

'But what if I don't want to deny you something like that?' Sherlock sounded upset now. He was twisting a paper tissue between his fingers into tight lengths. 'Or you miss it and go off to get it elsewhere? It's bad enough having to worry that you might miss women and their....sumptuous lady parts....and go off with one of them?'

He paused. Then whispered,

'It bothers me that you only left Mary when Rebecca turned out to be Moriartys child.'

John blanched at the mention of Mary and Rebecca's names. That wound was still too raw, and he and Sherlock had not so much as mentioned it since they returned to Baker Street. Now was definitely not when he planned to do so. So he set his jaw and ignored the provocation, concentrating on the sex aspect and the issue of women in general. No specifics.

'Not pleasurable, Sherlock. It wouldn't be pleasurable at all, for me, to have you doing that. Why in Gods name, would I ever desire you to go down on me, when all that activity reminds you of is being raped? I frankly can't think of anything less desirable from my point of view. Can you? 

I'm not ruling it out forever, and I don't want to upset you or make you feel I'm not approaching this with spontaneity, but I do not want you doing anything which is a trigger. 

It's the same with eating. In fact the two are so linked, I'll offer you a deal. The day you start eating proper food in normal quantities, we can reassess. In fact, the day you eat a supersize Big Mac with fries and an apple pie in one sitting, I will demand that you blow me off in the drivethrough. Maybe while I'm still waiting for change.'

Sherlock considered the image of sucking John off while eating a mouthful of oozing apple pie. Cinnamon. Mmmm. Not unappealing.

John moved, in general terms, to the subject of John the Bisexual who Isn't Gay and Might Prefer Personages of a Lady Kind. 

'As for women, we haven't even had sex yet, so I think you're jumping the gun a bit there? I might run for the hills when we get our cocks out. You will just have to make sure we fuck each others brains out so thoroughly that I can't remember my own name anymore, let alone whether I prefer breasts or dicks? OK? That's all I can say. I know I'm being crude, it's just I don't know what I can say?

But anyway, activity wise, even without a blowjob from you, I can assure you I have a very wide repertoire and I can think of plenty of other...'

The end of Johns sentence was muffled as he was smothered by a Sherlock kissing him as though the earth was about to end, and hands everywhere all over John. Sherlock was like a burned, scarred randy octopus. 

.............

The next moment, the earth might gladly have ended through pure embarrassment for John.

The holy trinity of unwanted witnesses walked straight in (what was the point in knocking if you don't WAIT, thought John); as Johns doctor, Mycroft and Molly Hooper walked in, shortly after followed by the fourth horseman of the Apocalypse of humiliation in the shape of Greg Lestrade, scion of the Met, complete with smartphone on camera mode. The flash made John blink and Sherlock, whose face was still firmly attached like a limpet to Johns lips, whip round in shock. To be met by the terrible vision of the face of Widely Grinning Greg. 

Mycroft smirked, twizzled his umbrella round on the floor, smoothed down his suit waistcoat, consulted his pocket watch and then drily remarked, 'If you could ensure you keep one foot on the ground at all times, brother dear, it would avoid the medical staff suffering a fit of the vapours. 

So good to see you looking so much better, John. You have a great deal more....colour in your cheeks. That must be a very good sign......medically speaking....'. He smirked the smug smirk of the cat who got the cream.

He rolled his eyes, and sat down slowly on a plastic chair he regarded with much distaste. John wasn't sure if he was actually touching it with his bum cheeks, he looked a bit like one of those people who always use plastic disposable covers on toilets in public buildings and are traumatised when there isn't one available and they feel they have to hover.....

Molly resembled nothing less than a deer caught in the headlights of a car.  
She could only squeak.

'Great!! That's great!! I'll, um. Catch you guys later, maybe', before she dropped her bouquet of flowers onto the tray table and literally scuttled away at top speed out of the room, and down to the safety of the morgue, and all those lovely dead bodies who didn't grope and snog each other in their hospital bed, just stayed nice and calm and well behaved on the gurneys. 

Lestrade was beaming and had the air of a man, all of whose Christmases had come in one go.   
'Yesssssssss'.  
He almost shouted it. He actually jumped in the air. Properly jumped.  
'Got it! On film! Back of the net!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. (That's, dramatically even for him).

'Don't you think that's a little unprofessional, Inspector? Especially when dealing with an attempted murder victim who's only just woken up, and a kidnapped torture victim, (which is me by the way)?'

'What? Nah, mate, this is gold. Pure gold.' Lestrade was unapologetic. 'I, my dear sweet slummy utterly brilliant protege, am now £250 smackers richer thanks to you two lovebirds!'

He looked back and forth between them as if they should share his delight at his good fortune. And then mystified as to why not.

John looked wearily at Sherlock, who was by now safely back in the seat next to the bed, allowing John himself to rest back on his pillows and recover something of his composure.

'Sweepstake?'

'It would certainly appear so, John.' Sherlock grinned ruefully. 

There was a small movement from the corner of the room. 

'I trump you, Gregory. Dear Anthea now owes me four hundred pounds.'

There was an outraged 'Mycroft' from both John and Sherlock in unison. Mycroft looked utterly unfazed. 

'Quite honestly, I have despaired of both of you. This was just a way of....passing the time...until the two of you saw sense. 

Now, I discern that Doctor Williams has other patients to attend to as well as you two, so we will leave to let him do his job. I will be in touch, Sherlock. Doctor Watson.' He nodded to Lestrade and the two men rose to leave. 

'Camera, Lestrade?' Sherlock thought it was worth a try. 

'Nah, mate. Police property. You'll need a warrant to get this off me. Besides, it's too late. I've already emailed it to Donovan. It'll be on the office notice board in approximately three and half minutes.'

With that, and tapping the smartphone to his heart, Lestrade blew lewd kisses at Sherlock and John as he and Mycroft left the room together.


	9. Recovery

Sherlock was forced under protest to return to his own room, while the doctors examined John and undertook various procedures. His outrage at them unclothing the personage of John was only slightly abated by Johns embarrassed requests for him to cooperate with standard medical practice and let them do their job. There was nearly a riot when Sherlock deduced that the doctors were going to remove Johns catheter......

Pouting, and grumpy; partly due to failing to bother taking his miserably ineffective non-addictive painkillers, and partly due to the humiliation of being pushed by an orderly because Mycroft and Lestrade had abandoned him, and he couldn't push the wheelchair himself; Sherlock sniffed crossly all the way back to his room, waving his arms around and spouting off about 'nobody understanding that John was very special and must not be treated like a sack of POTATOES or have his EQUIPMENT and ORIFICES INTERFERED WITH'. After muttering a thankyou to the traumatised and mystified orderly, the man basically ran off, having never encountered a creature like Sherlock Holmes before. 

Once in his room, Sherlock picked up his mobile phone and texted Mycroft. 

"Unacceptable accommodation. Require double private room. How long is John in for?"

The reply came about fifteen minutes later. It was practically verbose by Mycrofts standards.

"Stay where you are tonight, John needs rest, not being pestered by detectives with wandering hands and insomnia.  
Room will be organised from tomorrow if Johns condition allows and you are still an in-patient.  
He will likely be in for a few more days. Unless thrown out sooner because of your antics. Suggest you get Baker Street fumigated and experiments banished, as Dr Watson at high risk of infection for a while. Mrs H can help. She is coming to visit tomorrow, 2pm. No genitals on display, please. She is old. The shock may kill. Also, you need to visit Mummy once out of hospital. She has been asking after you."

Sherlock didn't sleep that night. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't have a case to distract him, Moran was the last link in the chain. He couldn't get used to the feeling of being safe. He couldn't get used to the idea that John might actually agree to try having a serious proper relationship with him, despite all the baggage of his past and his, well, his personality, and the experiments and the mess and his antisocial habits. 

He lay uncomfortably, his cuts and burns still hurting. At one point in the night he found a packet of chocolate raisins, presumably from Johns snack cupboard that he must have put in the pocket of the dressing gown Anthea had brought; she had procured clothes for them both. He nibbled at them, distracted by boredom and not really hungry despite not having eaten in - well, he wasn't really sure how long. 

Later as dawn broke, he turned on the radio and listened to the last hour of the night time broadcast on Radio 3. It was soothing violin music, and he slept at last for a short time, his dreams punctuated by reaching out for a John who wasn't there, and the face of Jonathon Lang melting as if made of wax and merging and unmerging with that of Jim Moriarty. He might have called out, and he definitely did wake up in an actual pool of sweat. 

He was glad to wake, his nightmares left behind, and he showered (his hair was much improved by the process and he was happy to remove John blood traces now he knew he was going to live and recover), and in his elated mood he even ate some cornflakes to keep up his strength before resuming shouting at the nursing staff. He stopped thinking of methods of committing suicide and returned the information to the cupboard just beside the front door of the gardeners bothy in his Mind Palace. 

.......

Sherlock and John spent that morning together. 

Sherlocks feet were now healed enough that, had he had full functional use of his hands, he could have got around on crutches. As it was, he was still in a wheelchair, although Mycroft had procured an electric one for him by the morning so he was soon to be found showing off his moves to John, who, unsurprisingly being an actual doctor had actually seen quite a few powered chairs before, but tried to look amazed and impressed, despite the fact that his many stitches were tightening and pulling and he felt as tired as a tired thing whos been overdoing it. 

They did not attempt any more intimate moments. Sherlock stopped attempting Paralympic standard wheelies after he knocked over the coat stand, and Johns cross reaction shocked him into finally noticing how exhausted John was looking and encouraged him to sleep.

After spending some time on his phone, texting Mycroft and various well-wishers, Sherlock hunched himself up on the plastic chair of hell and retreated to his mind palace in order to organise everything that had happened over the last few days. 

John woke up close to lunchtime, and after the doctors rounds, the two men had lunch. Such as it was. 

'Really, John. I don't know how they can even call this food. It is GREY.' Sherlock pushed the amorphous mass around his plate. Matter. It reminded him of the morgue. Brains. 

John cocked an eyebrow. He hadn't eaten his, either. Apparently it was Shepherds pie but it might as well have been Gypsy Tart given its appearance. It didn't taste of anything.

'You don't eat anyway, so why does it matter?' 

It matters, John, because you are a patient recovering from a major injury, and these imbeciles cannot provide you with the nutrition you require in order to optimise your recovery. I am calling Angelo. '

And he did exactly that. When Mrs Hudson bustled in at 2pm she found her boys eating chicken parmigiana (Sherlock - well, not really eating, but nibbling just at the nice crusty bits round the edge leaving teeth marks), and lasagna (John - eating like he'd never seen food before). There was a place set for her too, and a choice of penne arrabiata or veal Milanese. She didn't eat much of it, but she tucked into what she did have. It was a calm and cosy interlude.

Once they had finished, and Mrs Hudson had cleared away the plates even though she wasn't their housekeeper, she sat by the bed, her small bony hand holding Johns tightly. She would have held Sherlocks, but he was sitting in his wheelchair on the other side of the bed holding Johns other hand, looking like a lovesick puppy and his own spare hand was unavailable due to the plaster cast.

Mrs Hudson was in full on twitter mode. Although there were tears in her eyes when she looked at the state of the two of them.  
'You silly boys. Why do you have to get involved in all this trouble, when you could just solve vandalism or burglaries and have a nice peaceful time with cocoa and Ludo and Newsnight, I will never understand?' 

She looked at John. 

'I can see you've come off worst, dear. You need looking after. And he (she glanced at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and waved his plaster mittens at her sarcastically), is hardly in a fit state to look after anyone. I know I'm not your housekeeper but I'm making an exception, just for a couple of weeks, when you come home.' 

Sherlock looked at her gratefully.  
'Thankyou Mrs Hudson, I don't know what we'd do......' 

'Rubbish.' The old lady bristled. 'It will be doing me a favour. I can't be downstairs worrying about you two struggling up there. Who knows what will end up happening. That's supposing he'. She glanced again at Sherlock doubtfully, 'will be able to get upstairs. He doesn't look very mobile.'

'"He" is here, you know. They didn't make me deaf when they tortured me. Of course I will, Mrs Hudson. I don't have grip in my hands, but I do have legs and my feet are healing well now.'

'Your poor feet. Mycroft told me a little of what they did to you. You poor man. Electric shocks and metal cheese graters. I've never heard of anything so barbaric.'

Sherlock grimaced. 'Believe me, Mrs H, I've had worse.' 

She pursed her lips at that, but didn't enquire further. It seemed to stop her chattering about things they would rather not discuss, anyway. 

Soon, it was time for her to go. She pressed a tin of travel sweets into Johns hand. 'They have icing sugar on them. It's so hot in hospital wards, other sweets just go sticky. These will stay nice.'

And kissed them both, leaving a smell of roses and gardenia which Sherlock instantly cross checked against his perfume analysis database. Aha, not seeing that gentleman from the library any more, then? His aftershave had clashed with the gardenia. Good thing too. His book borrowing habits displayed a taste for appallingly infantile Westerns, coupled with the more explicit end of historical novels. When returned to the library, some of the covers of the latter were suspiciously sticky. Sherlock hadn't got close enough to determine whether he was dealing with a simple boiled sweet addict or something more sordid, but he knew this man was not right for his Hudders.

Masturbation over the excesses of the higher ranks of the Tudors was fine, Sherlock quite fancied himself in a doublet and hose, very breezy and easy access flaps possibly, but one really ought to keep a damp cloth handy, for the sake of the librarians...they had enough to deal with, with glue sniffing in the web cafe and everyone one might actually want in the library, staying away and buying everything on Amazon instead.

After she left, fluttering away like a tiny delicate bird, John daydreamed, half asleep, while Sherlock played chess with an online player he had never met, but who had been deemed slightly higher than an imbecile and consequently worthy of his precious time. He would later discover his opponent was a young Kazakh chess grand master, which revelation would give Sherlock a thrill that was frankly verging on the sexual. 

........

Sherlock was discharged the next day, partly because he was recovering well, and the cast had been replaced by an elasticated bandage, but also because his boredom level (putting it nicely) had reached a stage where the consequent antisocial behaviour towards the hospital staff trying to look after John had been deemed "no longer acceptable". The main issue had been the medics wanting to do procedures that Sherlock insisted John could do for himself, 'the man was a doctor for heavens sake', or which Sherlock thought Sherlock could do for him. He couldn't really, being Plaster Mitten man, but he thought he could try. Especially the procedures that involved unclothed John, helpless on his hospital bed. Sherlock hadn't seen Carry on Doctor, or if he had, he'd deleted it, but his thoughts were running along the same lines. Note: Mycroft has a secret weakness for Carry On films, but to date this has remained secret like most other things about Mycrofts likes.

Once Sherlock lost that argument, he still insisted he wanted to stay at the hospital, in the same room as John, but as he started to argue that with John himself, Mycroft appeared silently at the door and beckoned him to wheel his chair outside. 

The two brothers eyed each other warily. Their closeness during the recent crisis; Sherlocks vulnerability, and Mycrofts re-adoption of his childhood protector role, had left them both unsure as to how to proceed now that Sherlock seemed to have chosen life over oblivion, and was recovering well physically. 

They said nothing, but both silently chose option A in the end. Option A was reversion to full snarky sass bro mode. Option B was being bosom chums. Option B not really the Holmes style.

It wasn't quite the same, though. Underneath something had changed, and that small but significant shift would remove some of the underlying resentment between the two of them. On the surface nothing seemed to have altered, but underneath Sherlock was letting some of the bitterness go, and Mycroft was allowing it to float away unremarked but not unnoticed.

'You know you need to go. Get the flat ready for John. Not hang around here annoying everyone and stopping them doing their job.'

'But that means not being with John. He needs me.'

'What John needs, Sherlock, is for you to get his home in a state that makes life easy for him when he is discharged. Think about it, Sherlock. You've wanted this chance with him. Make it special. Do nice things. He's still going to be in discomfort when they let him out. Give him something to look forward to.'

Sherlock already had some ideas of things he would like to give John to look forward to, some of them eye watering and requiring sequential diagrams and pink coloured pencils, but he wasn't going to discuss those with Mycroft. He pouted.

'But John might need me here.'

'John doesn't need you here. John needs to rest and you are the definition of not restful. He will likely get out in a couple of days if you behave and visit like a dutiful....well, whatever you two like to call yourselves, Significant Other, perhaps?

Mycroft paused. 

Sherlock, I'm going to remove the surveillance at the flat. All of it. You're not at risk from Moriarty or Moran now, your health won't be up to any dangerous cases for a bit; and despite what you like to think, brother dear, my desire to track your every move has been solely motivated by a wish to protect you from the dangers you faced, at your own hand and by that of others.'

His announcement took Sherlock by surprise. 

'I can see about the removal of the risk of being a target. But aren't you worried I'm just going to go off and acquire a monumental stash of coke? And what about anyone targeting me to get at you? 

You have Doctor Watson as your protection now. It's not as comprehensive, but he will be on the spot. He is also very competent and....ahem....highly loyal. More so than ever, now, I believe? 

And I believe you, in turn, have the motivation you need to stay clean. This is your best chance to do so, brother mine.

Be under no illusion, Sherlock. If you and John have a serious relationship issue, I know what the likely consequences are, and the surveillance will be back so quickly you won't have time to blink. 

But even I recognise that now, you two need space to develop your charming and courtly relationship. Though God alone knows what the good doctor sees in you? Perhaps he has an interest in catastrophic psychological case studies? Or walking skeletons? Test study subject for the effects of highly illegal pharmaceuticals? '

Back to normal conversation, then, Sherlock thought wryly.

'Besides,' Mycroft was back into smug mode.

'I have seen enough of your shapely arse getting "it" from unsavoury gentlemen to last me several lifetimes, Sherlock. And whilst I admire the good Doctor Watson as much as the next man, and appreciate his manly military qualities which I am sure are irresistible to those with a particular - interest - in that area', (Mycroft smirked epicly), 'I have literally no desire in this life, or the next, to see his quivering backside in that context. Unless you choose to upload footage online, of course. In which case, do send me a link. Or perhaps John might post it on the blog, as a sort of ironic postmodern coming out announcement. Please do not copy in Mummy and Daddy by mistake'

Mycroft turned serious once again, as if to clear his brain of the images.

'Sherlock, I will only say this once to you.

If you betray John, if you hurt him, you will not get another chance. Your fake death was necessary, more than necessary, I understand that better than anyone, but we all underestimated the impact it had on Doctor Watson. At times, I feared he would do something very foolish. 

And now that he has also been betrayed so completely by the woman he married; well, Brother Dear, it doesn't take a genius such as myself or even a lesser brain like your own, to know that his levels of trust and confidence are extremely low. 

If he walks out on you, Sherlock, make no mistake, it will be for good and he will not come back. He has skills that would be welcome anywhere in the world and a yearning for the war zones that made his life feel meaningful. And if you are at fault, little brother, then frankly I will gladly help him realise those ambitions, and your lover will be back in the desert as a civilian contractor within a week. I could do it, and I will. 

I don't say this to pressurise you, as I know you too have been through a similarly traumatic time. I say it because I know this fledgling relationship is something which you have never felt able to attempt before, and you need to make it work despite yourself. 

It's unfortunate that the object of your passion is someone who is so troubled themselves; but then, Sherlock, perhaps your shared damage is one of the things that binds you most closely? 

Mycroft smiled at him. This time it was a Myc smile, to his beloved Bee. 

'I think you will need to stay with me at Eaton Square while 221B is readied. You can't possibly manage stairs for a few more days and I have a well equipped ground floor suite originally set up with Mummy and Daddy in mind. The car will be here in fifteen minutes. Don't be late. And don't annoy the porters.'


	10. Back to Baker Street once more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut alert :-)

John Watson returned to 221B from the hospital six days after Sherlock Holmes was slung out of the same institution. 

John received a rather more favourable send off, having become a favourite with both male and female staff for his uncomplaining and courteous manners. Several of them remarked that they thought it was a shame he clearly favoured spending his time hanging around Draculas cousin. 

Sherlock, when he overhead that remark, had taken to turning up at visiting hours wearing a large black velvet cloak he'd found in Mycrofts inner closet. Only his brother could be so far in the closet he had an inner one, he sniggered. He stole the cloak and flapped it at staff who dared to come too close to John. 

One woman thought he was a vampire kissogram and became quite handsy; for once, Security had to rescue him, and escort him to John, instead of throwing him out. John didn't seem to mind the cloak: in fact Sherlock thought he might have quite liked Sherlock in it. It made John smile, anyway, which was worth temporarily sacrificing his Belstaff. 

On the day of Johns discharge, Mycroft sent one of his black limousines to collect the pair of them and take them to Baker Street. Sherlock now had the use of both hands, after a fashion, and the soles of his feet were now healed enough to walk on. So he helped John, who was walking but still weak, into the car. 

There was a curious reticence between the men on the journey back. John was finding the day tiring, and Sherlock....well he was pensive, clearly contemplating the challenge ahead of navigating uncharted emotional waters. 

At last they pulled up, and were soon inside that dear, dear, door. Mrs Hudson was there, with flowers and Mrs Turner from next door, and even her Married Ones, Jack and Liam, who had clearly been press ganged but were friendly and charming. John felt a bit self consious, as though he'd been given gold membership of the Great Big Gay Club, when he hadn't done anything more than a Little Bit Gay yet.

Thanking them all, and then firmly divesting themselves of the lot of them, even Mrs Hudson who whispered to them that she was sorry she wouldn't be here after all because she, Mrs Turner and the married ones were all off to a spa for a week tonight, paid for by that lovely brother of Sherlocks........Sherlock was finally able to shut the door of the flat with them inside and the world outside. 

They looked at each other. 

They didn't really know what came next. 

They carried on looking at each other. 

It was OK, though. They were enjoying the warm glow of knowledge that they were here, alone, together, and for once in their otherwise crappy lives, they were here with something to look forward to and weirdly no one trying to kill them. It felt very strange.

Sherlock cleared his throat noisily. 

'Um, I had some people in, to tidy and clean and suchlike, I know you need not to have germs and stuff'.

He went into the living room to show John the gleaming table, the well ordered bookshelves, the absence of Dark Matter from the floor. He pointed out the changes proudly. 

He thought John was following him but realised he had been talking to thin air. He looked around in alarm, went back out into the corridor and into his room. 

John was sitting on his bed. Sherlocks own bed. Clothed, but.....Sitting there. And smiling. He called over softly to Sherlock. 

'Im not up to much, really. Not for a bit. But I'd really like a lie down, maybe a sleep. Care to join me?' 

Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to ten. He couldn't trust his legs to move. But they must have moved, because when he opened his eyes again what seemed an age later, he was now by the side of his bed and there was actually the vision of a John Watson in it, propped against the headboard and now not wearing any clothes. Not a stitch.

Sherlock thought he might have died after all, in that Barbican bathroom and this was just a trick of the afterlife. But after he closed his eyes and opened them again, naked John was still there looking all golden and bristly and furry and - delicious. 

Sherlock fumbled getting his own clothes off. He'd never been fully naked with another person before, not since Jonathon Lang, that was one of his coping rules. Even the shagging he'd done, he'd been somewhere public and so partially dressed. Hospitals, well, yes, but that was doctors and nurses seeing your things. Not someone you were sharing your nudity with in That context. But this was different, had to be different, for both their sakes. 

He could feel Johns eyes fixed on him. Raking up and down as he undressed. He was facing away from John, self conscious. 

'Turn around.' 

It wasn't quite a an order, and it was said very softly, but there wasn't a question other than to comply. He wanted to comply, he just didn't want John to see something he didn't like, some aspect of his body, and reject him. His whole life depended on John not rejecting him. 

He stepped out of his trousers, and then, finally, his underpants, which were plain and fine and black, and turned.

He didn't see rejection. He saw a face, an open, honest smiling face, which gazed at him with more love and desire and care than this skinny not-very-ex addict had ever witnessed. Despite the Serbian scars. Despite the elastic bandage on his wrist. Despite his whole personality. Despite his fucked up mind.

'Come here.' Another instruction. John was making this easier for him. The words could have been triggering, but the tone of his voice, so soft and gentle and loving, completely negated that risk, and just left Sherlock with a sense of quiet and calm.

Sherlock walked to the bed. Drew back the bedcovers (brave). Enabling him, in his turn, to see John Hamish Watson nude for the very first time. 

He was glad he had made it to the bedside. His legs lost all power at that moment, so he was grateful to be able to sit on the side of the bed, as he stared in his usual intent fashion, at the man now lounging in the bed. 

John was slim, compact and powerfully built. His body shape was very different to Sherlocks, just as his colouring was. He looked like a muscly power pack. It was hard to imagine how much more misleading those woolly jumpers could have been. Good. That was good. He was hidden from the worlds gaze. This was only for him. Only for Sherlock. 

Sherlock licked his lips. 

It wasn't just his general physique. John was also well endowed. And as well as proportions, even at rest, his penis was unusually elegant. Sherlock always thought his own cock was slightly ridiculous, impressively long but not that wide. And width mattered, apparently. Sherlock didn't really know if they was true since nobody had bothered about his cock in the past. He'd always been bent over something by someone, somewhere, for their pleasure. He'd never been asked to top. But then, he conceded, he'd never been asked anything when it came to sex. He knew he liked being told what to do, but not if they didn't find out what he liked. 

John looked down at his own prick, raised his eyebrows, and looked back up at Sherlock. He smiled, relieved that Sherlock clearly liked what he saw. He was self conscious despite his army experiences of close proximity living, and the hurried trysts with Sholto. They had been pretty furtive and generally clothes were partially retained.

Johns deep navy blue eyes looked Sherlock up and down again. His own gorgeous private on parade, he thought. What a bloody beautiful thought. 

'You look unbelievable.' breathed John to Sherlock, who looked startled. 'So fucking elegant and beautiful, I can't believe you are here; can't believe you're here wanting me. With my smashed up shoulder and now a bloody great long scar to add to it.' 

He pointed at his stitches. Sherlock said nothing, but leaned over, drew the covers over them and bent his head to Johns side, to the long row of stitches and the ugly wound. He kissed his way up the wound, every single stitch being kissed individually. 'This scar', he muttered into Johns skin, his voice vibrating against his rib cage, 'this scar saved my life. I love this scar.' Then he kissed the bullet wound scar on Johns shoulder. 'And this one. This one brought you to me. Without this, we would not have met. I love this scar.'

The two men were facing one another now, and their foreheads dropped until they were each touching the others. It felt like the weight of the world was in those heads and the weight was draining away from them like water as they pressed against one another. As they lay, their bodies close together, each became aware of the friction between them, and of the hard arousal that was growing quickly as they touched. 

They kissed, long exploratory kisses, John shy, wary and and tentative, Sherlock hungrier, clumsier, all tongues and saliva and teeth and desire. They shivered, and sighed and murmured.

By now, John realised, they weren't just sleeping tonight. This was turning into some sort of activity. He didn't want to stop it, but was nervous. And there was stuff he wasn't going to be able to do, tonight at least. He decided to dictate the pace. 

'Sherlock. Can I - touch you?'

'John. Please.'The voice was impossibly deep and almost a groan. John reached down and gently cupped Sherlocks penis, which was now properly hard and slightly leaking. Sherlock gasped as John smiled at him, and started to use his hand to stroke, to rub, to play, to pleasure Sherlock. Sherlock himself was struggling a little. John looked up and saw that his eyes were shut and he was muttering to himself. His good hand was gripping Johns good shoulder, the other was redundant but his fist was clenched hard. 

John was stroking Sherlocks cock harder now and using the pre-come to lubricate the shaft, thumbing the top at the peak of each glide. Sherlock was starting to sweat and his eyes were open but looked wild and unfocused. John decided Sherlock needed to be more involved, more focused to avoid him spacing out. 

He gently took Sherlocks good hand from his shoulder, and with his own smaller hand took his own penis in hand, which to date had been shamefully neglected and was hard and shining with want. Bringing the two erect cocks together, he slowly and deliberately wrapped Sherlocks huge hand around both pricks, his own small hand covering only part of Sherlocks, the sight so mismatched it looked bizarre. Bizarre but sexy. Sherlock stared down at his hand, transfixed. John too. He'd never done this. He thought he might like it.

And then John guided their movement as they worked together, the friction and lubrication between them unbearably effective and those obscene sounds, the noises of their mutual action driving them on and on. There was panting, and there was gasping, and groaning and John was bloody loving every second of it. He hoped Sherlock was too. He thought he was. From the noises. Especially the gasping. The feeling was quickly becoming too much to stand.

It didn't take long. They had waited so long already. Years of wanting and longing and waiting. It all came down to this moment. 

Sherlock tensed. John sensed he was close. Sherlocks body was twitching uncontrollably and he was shaking.

'Ahhh, John. John. I'm going to...

Agghh ...John...!!! John, please! John.....

'Go on, don't wait. I want to see you come. Come for me, Sherlock. Do it. Do it now.'

With these last words, Sherlock screamed, actually screamed, and came harder than John had ever seen anyone come. Ribbons and ribbons of come pulsed from him and covered both their torsos like icing frosting on a cake. Some went on the bed sheets. 

Sherlock gripped John with his thighs like a vice and groaned. Then he fell back, spent and limp. It didn't matter. The feeling of his orgasm and then those gripping thighs had tipped John over the edge too, and a few seconds later, he too came, with a hoarse and desperate shout, adding his own beautiful layer to the abstract body art. The record of us, he thought. Of the fact we were here, together, now, and we did this, together. This is history. No one can take this away from me now. 

John felt like a king. He lay there, gasping, spent and boneless.

As he slowly came back down from his orgasm, he gradually realised there was no gasping or sighs from Sherlock any more. Not even a snore. 

Not even a sound of someone breathing.

He looked at Sherlock. 

Still. 

Unresponsive. 

Shit. Fuck. He couldn't. No, he couldn't....

....He could. 

Sherlock was unconscious. 

John tried not to panic. Which was difficult when your whole being was yelling PANIC!!!

This would be funny if it wasn't a bit fucking worrying, John thought, as he checked Sherlocks pulse, heartrate, breathing and all the other usual vitals . They were all ok, he had just fainted. He turned him onto his side into the recovery position, made sure his airway was clear (which did involve using not entirely spunk free fingers, but needs must and speed was the essence).

It was probably only about a minute before Sherlock recovered consciousness. 

When he did, he found himself naked, in the recovery position and having large quantities of shared ejaculate being gently wiped from his body with a warm damp flannel. 'Hmm?, 'he thought, confused for a moment about where he was (crack den? alley? childhood bedroom? Taste of semen....O god....) before he recalled the moments up to his fainting and the fear and wave of nausea disappeared and Sherlock Holmes smiled the smile of a man who thought he was drowned but whose shipwrecked boat is now within sight of the shore.

'Hey, you', said John, the friendly waving native on the desert island, looking worried. 'Back with me?' 

'Um, yes. Uh...yes....sorry about...that.' Sherlock tried to raise himself up but John stopped him. 

'No, let me.' 

John dragged Sherlocks body up so that he lay supported against Johns warm, furry chest. 

'Any reason you know why that might have happened? That's other reasons, than me being John-with-the-cock so amazing, people actually swoon and pass out?'

'Well.....I haven't eaten very much. I mean, maybe less even than normal. Nothing while I've been at Mycrofts.'

'Why the fuck not, Sherlock? You've been there for fucking days. He's got a fucking chef!' 

A pause. 

'Sorry, pretend I said that without swearing?'

'I've been.....ummm....worried. About, all this. Everything. Everything we want to do and things we might not do and things I might mess up and make you leave me. I've just been concentrating on getting everything right. Eating made me feel sick. And you weren't there. So I didn't.' 

Sherlock looked guilty.

'And while we were doing what we just did, even though that's been fine before with, you know, the Oxford thing, this time I found it all a lot to deal with. In my head. 

Not to do with anything past, exactly. But more to do with, what this is, that those times weren't. It was all too much in my head because it matters now, when it didn't then. And you might not like it - with me. Because I'm the one who's been here before but I don't know what's 'appropriate'and what's just been stuff I've done or had done to me. So there's that.' His head hung low.

John sighed. He kissed Sherlocks black curls and buried his nose deep in them.  
'So you worried about that, and that was too much, and also you worried so you didn't eat?'

'Yes.'

'Right. Well. Here's the plan. 

Now, and I mean now, Sherlock, we are going to the kitchen and we are going to gather up an wide array of those nibble snacks we got, the ones in the labelled cupboard, OK? You choose, but it needs to be a minimum of three each. And I am going to make tea. 

And then, we are going to come back to bed, drink our tea and eat our snacks until we have crumbs and chocolate smears all over the sheets, since they will have to be washed anyway as the spatter pattern of your epic ejaculation, my sweet madman, has ....and John paused, them whispered dramatically and dirtily, so dirtily, ....irretrievably soiled them.....'

Sherlock smiled a wan pale smile. Happy but insecure. 

'Are we ok? Is everything ok? Did I mess it up, John?' 

'Yes. No. You didn't mess anything up. You were perfect and brilliant and sexy. We just need to make sure you actually remain technically conscious throughout, next time.....? 

And we need to discuss what happens when we go on from here to....other stuff.' 

At this last part, Sherlock shrank back slightly. 

John hurriedly added 'just working out who likes what, who's done what (scowl from Sherlock) things they haven't done but would like to (hopeful but nervous look), things they fantasise about.....'

Sherlock cheered up at the last part. 

.............

They made the tea, and returned to the now shared bed, John with a kitkat, some yoghurt covered raisins and something squashed and unidentifiable but quite tasty that might have involved dates. Sherlock picked out three tiny boxes of raisins. They were the smallest items there and John realised next time he would have to specify three different items, but for now he didn't want to impose retrospective changes of boundaries, for fear of losing Sherlocks trust. 

Once they finished their weird picnic, and retrieved several yoghurt raisins from the not desperately hygienic innards of the bed, John went to switch out the light. 

Before he did so, he looked over at Sherlock, who was crashing now with the fructose hit and post sex sleepiness, and whose eyes were drooping and heavy lidded. He looks like an Ancient Greek, thought John, who was by now close to sleep himself. A bloody statue. Not aggressively masculine. Not overpoweringly feminine. Just fucking beautiful. 

He climbed into bed, and instantly felt a long spidery arm reaching over and gathering him like a tentacle to Sherlock long body, until they were spooned against one another, Sherlocks form curled around Johns smaller body like a turtle shell. 

John had never felt so protected or so calm. He was, it was true, worried about the next steps of their relationship. But for now, they had survived the first major step and here in this bed, he had everything he needed. He checked Sherlock was still breathing, and then lay back, sighed heavily, and fell deeply, dreamlessly asleep.


	11. Navigating the Unknown

When John woke, it was dark. They had slept the whole day through. At least, he had. Sherlock was not there: the bed was empty on his side.

John felt a slight feeling of panic. Had Sherlock passed out again, maybe in the bathroom this time? Or had a freak-out about the whole thing and done a disappearing act, only to be found in yet another of London's top ten pop-up crack dens?

He stretched, unpeeled his body which appeared to be slightly stuck to the sheets by the unsavoury dual hazards of dried semen and a couple of stray raisins, and got wearily out of bed. His stitches were pulling and he felt tired. Donning clean T shirt and boxers, he padded into the living room. 

There was a Sherlock shaped lump huddled on the sofa, covered by a woollen blanket. Only his dark curls and nose were visible. A packet of raisins lay on top of the blanket, untouched, like a paupers attempt at Anglo Saxon burial goods. Assuming Anglo Saxons liked raisins. Did they have raisins then? John wasn't sure. 

'Hi. You okay?' 

'Mmm. Yes. I think. Yes.' Sherlock didn't sound entirely sure. 

John tried again. 

'You didn't want to, you know, wake up next to me?' He tried not to feel hurt or let hurt into his voice but knew he had slightly failed. 

Sherlock looked confused. 

'Is that what you are supposed to do?' 

'Yes, Sherlock, it is. It makes the other person feel loved and wanted, and not like a one night stand or quick shag you leave as soon as you're done.'

'Oh.'

John looked at him and realised Sherlocks face actually looked really, really puzzled and slightly sad. It took him a moment to realise that Sherlock had had zero experience of people making love to him and then waking up with him. Just fucking him and laughing or giving him drugs and then walking away. 

He vowed to stop whining about things that 'people did', and that Sherlock didn't.

........

There was the sound of a door bell. Delivery driver style ring. John left Sherlock huddled on the sofa and pulled on some trousers, then slowly made his way awkwardly downstairs to the deserted hallway. Opening the door, he was handed a large parcel, addressed to him, and asked to sign for it. He glanced beyond the delivery man to the night street. A large black limo. Aha, interesting. Not DHL or FedEx, then. British Government. He signed the chit.

He closed the door and looked down at the parcel. Something, he couldn't have said what, told him to open it now, and not upstairs. He ripped open the brown paper. 

Inside the parcel, was a large, rather faded, rather stained, stuffed plush cuddly toy bee. It was gold and black, missing one antenna and part of one black shiny plastic eye was chipped a bit, but its sewn woollen smile was still smiley and had clearly been a well-loved toy of a small child. It looked old, really old.

John was mystified. Then he searched through the brown paper and found a small note, on the same cream heavy paper, that the note accompanying the disgusting photographs wedged in his bookcase had been written on. And the same handwriting. He read the note. 

'Dear Doctor Watson, 

My apologies for this remote communication; however I felt it best to give you and my brother some time alone. In addition, I am currently in Washington, attempting to persuade our transatlantic cousins that a Special Relationship involves...an element of specialness. To date I have had some success, albeit at the cost of being forced to discuss US police dramas apparently known as "cop shows" with a seven foot tall basketball player and the tedium of a private dinner with the cream of the US political hegemony. My next stop is Moscow, where I confidently predict President Putin will challenge me to a bear-wrestling contest. I shall concede, and his victory will be glorious and unopposed. But I digress. The torture will be over soon.

You are probably wondering about the bee toy I have sent you? This was Sherlock's constant companion as a toddler and small boy. I won it at a fair, when he was three and I was ten. He cried ceaselessly until I agreed he could have it. He was, henceforth, never separated from it. He was rather an immature child, and was still deeply attached to it when, well, you know. 

The bee toy was retrieved from the summerhouse Sherlock had barricaded himself in, and once it had been checked for any....evidence ...and cleaned, it was eventually returned to the family. However by the time that happened, Sherlock was already in a secure juvenile psychiatric unit. And, once released, he was far too wild and out of control to seek any solace in anything, least of all a childhood toy.

However, I think things may be different now. I perceive that my brother and yourself, John, will be having some difficult conversations over the coming days about things that have affected him, and I think he may find the presence of this item a comfort. Use it wisely. 

I have great faith in your ability, John, to see him through this journey, 

I am,  
Your obedient servant,  
Mycroft Holmes. "

.......

John stared at the toy, turning it over and over in his hands. What to do with it? Sherlock was bound to ask questions about who was at the door.

He needed air, and opened the front door again to get a healthy mouthful of Baker Street's finest polluted offering, only to be faced now by another postman, who had been just about to knock, and who bizarrely also had a large parcel at this time of night. John looked bemused, but signed for this one too. He could use this as the reason for the noisy first delivery. He'd opened the door very quietly this time, and the postie hadn't had time to ring the bell or knock.

John was to be eternally grateful that he didn't open this second package in front of the delivery man. Instead, he stuffed the toy bee back into its packaging along with the note and thence into the hall cupboard (the one next to the door leading down to dank and dreary and perennially empty 221C). Then, he dragged himself back upstairs with the sizeable second parcel unopened.

Sherlocks eyes darted to the parcel as he entered the living room. John looked at the franking. Met Police? Strange. Why was Lestrade sending them a big box?

This one was addressed to Sherlock. He threw it over to him. Well, there wasn't a fragile sticker on it.

Sherlock opened the brown paper wrapping from the parcel. Then he slowly opened the plain black cardboard box contained therein. Then, then his mouth formed a kind of round 'O' which John had never seen him make before. His eyebrows raised. Sherlock quickly read the card that accompanied the parcel, then smirked and handed it to John. It read:

"Following the sweepstake, I thought it only right I spent some of my winnings on some treats for you lucky lovebirds. Remember, don't use them all at once, and take heed of the following advice from Papa Lestrade:

"It's all about preparation  
You cannot have/use too much lube. Lube is not endangered, there are lube mines in Camden Market and Streatham, I believe and various other locations. Lots of lovely, lovely lube. All the lube.  
Remember, if you like it, and they like it, and it doesn't involve animals or children, then it's all good.  
Careful with the risky stuff, though. Air and circulation are required to sustain life. Maybe leave off the more extreme stuff for a bit, especially given his Majesty's interest in corpses.  
I have included 5 different varieties of condoms. Use them. For oral or anal. Sherlocks past antics means it'll be a while until thats a choice, testing or not.  
Sherlock: please note that not all of the toys need to be used simultaneously, and they should all also be ideally used in the orifice for which they are designed. 

That's it.  
Have fun, boys!  
Just wish I could see your faces...ahh well.

G"

John blanched slightly, and then looked over. 

Sherlock was rummaging in the large box, and his eyes gleamed and glittered as he tipped it onto its side and a cascade of sex toys, dildos, nipple clamps, beads, sounding rods, plugs and a variety of paddles, whips, blindfolds and ropes fell out in a large obscene pile onto the floor, followed by boxes and boxes of condoms and gallons of lube in a bulk shrink wrapped tray.

'Crikey', gulped John. 

'Crikey indeed, John', replied Sherlock, his voice slightly deep but also muffled by the fact he now appeared to be gingerly licking the end of a massive dildo. He also, John noticed, seemed to be wearing a bracelet of anal beads. A further eight dildos were arranges in a circular pattern somewhat akin to Stonehenge. 

'Do you think he spent all the winnings on this lot?' John was a little awestruck but mainly horrified. There were things here the purpose of which he would take some time to determine. And it was all, very, very, very gay. In fact, GAY. 

'Probably most of it. I think he wanted us to avoid any embarrassment purchasing such items, but also fancied inflicting the embarrassment for himself.'

'Should we pay him for the stuff? '

'Uh, No. I think the only repayment Lestrade has in mind is the thought of us using all this gear. He's truthfully a massive perv.'

It was only then that John noticed that Sherlock was wearing a pair of nipple clamps in his hair. He wondered how it was, that his life had come to this? 'At least I can say I'm never bored', he muttered...

.........

As the late hours of the evening wore lazily on, ostensibly pleasantly and quietly, the box of tricks moved to the bedroom out of sight; John began to sense that Sherlock was becoming less relaxed and more tense and distracted. Up until now he had been happily occupied staring at John, then typing furiously. When John looked over his shoulder he realised that Sherlock was creating a detailed spreadsheet of the sex toys, no doubt with a view to some kind of horrific sexual experiment involving his own intimate personage, thought John gloomily. 

The old John, the John who hadn't known about the shitfest that was Sherlock's back story, would have shouted and ranted. The new John, the one who knew the stuff no one should have to know, merely raised an eyebrow and sighed theatrically.

But as the traffic started to quieten finally, around ten pm, the mood shifted. Sherlock was starting to look worried about something. And John thought he knew what. 

He called out for food and when the Thai meal arrived he insisted that, once he had cut up Sherlock's share into tiny pieces, that he ate at least a third of it. Then they sat by the fire. The last time they did this, they shared a first kiss and then almost both got killed, thought John. It can't be any more dramatic this time.

He lay down the newspaper, and glanced across at Sherlock, who was in his dressing gown on the sofa in full steepled fingers contemplation mode. Frowning.

'Are you ready to talk some more?'

There was a grunt.  
'What about?'

'About stuff. Things you like. Things you've done, things you haven't but want to. Things that you don't like. Things that trigger you.'

'Yes. Well. No, in that case.'

'No to all of it? '

'No to some of it.'

'No to the parts about things that trigger you? '

'Mmmmhmmm.' 

Okay. Let's talk about the other stuff. But in respect of the triggers, we'll do it another way. I'm going to draw up a checklist, and if I do that can you just tick things that are NOT ok? Maybe adding anything important I miss? 

A pause. 

'Okay' 

'Good. I'm going to do that first. ' 

John tapped away. He'd changed the parameters a bit, and decided to use the checklist method for the goods as well as the no nos. 

It took him over an hour, but he was satisfied with the results, so printed out several copies. He made tea, and gave Sherlock a copy of the spreadsheet. 

Sherlock glanced over it. 

'So we're using this for goods and bads then?'

'Yes'

'Are you filling one in too?'

'You bet I am, Private Holmes.'

'At which Sherlock stopped scowling and started filling out the form at top speed.'

.......

Half an hour later, John was reviewing the results. He read them out, his own first.

JOHN WATSON

Things I have done and like

Giving blowjobs- both sexes (and receiving but NB second not henceforth relevant)  
Handjobs - male partner  
Penetrative - female partner vaginal sex  
Toys- female partner, dildos and vibrators

Preferred role  
Dominant

Things I have not done but would like to consider:  
Anal sex (as top)  
Would consider anal sex (bottom) in certain contexts*  
More exploration of Dom aspects  
Sex in risky situations eg hidden corner but in public  
Sex toys 

* for further discussion 

Triggers / red lines

No breath play  
No blood play  
No bodily fluids other than semen  
No sensory deprivation  
No gun play or other weapons  
No objects other than purpose designed sex toys  
No bondage  
No 'taking by surprise' aspects

Sherlock looked down the list. Concentrating hard. Then he looked up

'The triggers, they're to do with the army experiences, yes?'

'You got it. And some of them are serious. If you try and jump me, or even wake me from a nightmare, it could be the last thing you do, Sherlock. My reactions are hair trigger and aren't really under my control. See, you know, you're not the only one with issues.' 

He reached across and squeezed Sherlocks hand. 

'OK.' Sherlock peered again at the paper. 

'And the thing about topping, that makes sense because you are used to being the penetrator in hetero sex situations. The statement about..maybe trying bottoming? Is that something you do want to do? I know there's the topping from the bottom thing but everything here is very strongly indicating topping, and as you know bottoming is sort of what I've done, maybe it's my role?'

John swallowed hard. 

Would you mind if we left that one until we go through your sheet? 

Sherlock looked confused, and slightly distressed at the prospect of moving onto his answers at all, but handed over his sheet. 

John started to read. 

SHERLOCK

'Things I have done. (The words 'and like' have been crossed out).

Oral sex, giving.  
Note: When JL, my throat would be blocked until I lost consciousness. 

Anal sex. Receiving.  
Note: When JL, the injuries required 8 internal stitches. I do not remember. The doctors put me to sleep. When I was recovering, I could only have liquidised food for a week. So please John, no smoothies? I will eat the fruit intact, cut up instead.

Anal sex - by objects.  
Note: When JL, these included bottles, hairbrushes, candles, knife handles and some others I can't remember. These were sometimes worse than the actual rapes because there wasn't an orgasm end point when he would stop. 

He destroyed the objects after he used them so there wasn't the evidence. He was a clever man. 

I hate him still.'

.............

John excused himself at this point. He didn't want to. He felt he was letting Sherlock down. But he had to. He said he needed the loo. Sherlock's eyes followed him but he said nothing.

John locked himself in the bathroom, turned on the taps to cover the noise, and wept. How much more? How much? He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He felt contaminated by that....man, just by reading about it. 

Then he washed his face, practiced smiling in the mirror, and went back into the room. Sherlock was plucking violently at his violin, looking out of the window into the night. He said nothing about the lack of flushing sound or John's reddened face. 

..........

John pressed on. He wanted to get this done.

SHERLOCK

Things I have not done but am interested in 

Sex with John  
Being allowed to touch John everywhere on his body (all over). The last part was underlined.  
Being allowed to smell John  
Being allowed to lick John (John hesitates then continues)  
Collecting some samples of John (hair, nails, saliva, semen, blood???) for experimental purposes  
John being strict and ordering me while in the bedroom (not on cases)  
John wearing army gear? Including his army tags? I should like to hold them. Taste them. Or maybe even wear them if John doesn't mind.  
Sensory deprivation eg blindfold, ear plugs  
Bondage  
Sex toys

Triggers / red lines

Giving oral sex, though I will if John would like it.  
Objects being inserted other than sex toys  
Men's fragrances that have a strong sandalwood signature. I can provide a list of brand names  
Short sleeved shirts, especially striped ones.  
Ties resembling my school one. It was navy blue with a small silver stripe. Silk?  
Argyle socks, especially blue based patterns  
Cuff links with St George and the dragon  
Beatings with cane  
Sex involving knives  
Gagging

 

John finished reading out the list, realising he'd got slower and slower reading it. The trigger list made him feel sick. And the swapping from trigger activities to small items of clothing and back. It was like Sherlock was reliving it. He breathed hard.

They hadn't got to the discussion about 'topping'. It would have to wait. Sherlock was in no fit state to discuss any more. He was looking very spaced out. John was pretty sure that, whether written or verbally, this was the first time in twenty five years that he had detailed even in basic terms, some of the things Lang had done. 

He called Sherlocks name softly but got no reply. Tried again. Nothing. The violin was by his side now, and he stood like a statue by the window, gazing down at the darkness of Baker Street.

John made a decision. He told Sherlock to stay where he was for one minute, not to move, not that he looked like he was moving anywhere, ran downstairs and retrieved the rather squashed bee toy from its hiding place. Then he came back upstairs. 

He put it behind his back, came over to the window, and stood next to Sherlock. He touched his shoulder gently.

'Sherlock. I have something for you.'

Sherlock, even in his upset, couldn't resist a surprise. He looked around, puzzled. 

John smiled.

'Mycroft sent it for you. He thought you might want it. Perhaps it might have been lonely without you?' 

Time to throw the dice again John, he thought. Not enjoying this game. Fucking stakes were too high. Sherlock might completely freak, might associate this with Lang. Really not sure about this at all....

John held out the bee toy. 

Sherlock stared at it. Then he grabbed it from John and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door shut. 

So that, thought John, was that.

.......

About an hour later he quietly went into the bedroom. Sherlock was huddled on the bed, clutching the bee in clenched hands, and, although not asleep, made no movement as John approached the bed. 

'Im sorry', John said softly and sat down beside Sherlock. 'I know that was really hard. I needed to know that stuff, we needed to explore it, but I know it wasn't at all easy.'

He lay down beside Sherlock, who was looking at him, sadness etched into his features. 

'I'm so fucking proud of you', John said. As he said it, he realised the bedclothes under his head were wet, from Sherlocks tears. He reached out and touched Sherlocks damp cheek. Brushed the curls back from his eyes. Smoothed the worry lines. Traced the line of his eyebrows. So exquisite, and so troubled, all rolled up into one.

John felt himself start to cry. He lay down and wept. Tears of helplessness and frustration and anger and sadness and regret and bitterness and love. 

Probably some of them were for the loss of Rebecca, his baby who wasn't his baby and who Mary had created via AI using Moriartys semen as a final project by Jim to really properly burn the heart out of him, and who he hadn't cried about yet; but mostly for Sherlock who had carried around this unbearable burden practically alone for three quarters of his solitary life. 

Gradually the tears from both men ran dry, the pillows left wet and salty and their faces sore and inflamed. 

John carried on stroking, humming gently now. And then he murmured some words, that of his favourite poem. He'd had a phase of liking poetry, but while he'd left that behind, this one had stayed with him. It was short, and it was about a she, but John switched it to a he as he whispered it. Robert Graves wouldn't mind, he thought. Not in the circumstances. 

"He, then, like snow on a dark night  
Fell secretly.  
And the world waked, with dazzling of the drowsy eye  
So that some muttered 'Too much light'  
And drew the curtains close  
Like snow; warmer than fingers feared  
And to soil friendly  
Holding the histories of the night  
In yet unmelted tracks."

John wasn't sure why he liked this poem so much. It was something to do with the rhythm, and also the last line was his favourite, and now he felt Sherlock too, would appreciate the idea of the unmelted tracks. Though references to a fall might be a bit raw, so he just murmured that bit. Maybe he liked it because Sherlock was seen as 'too much' by so many people, and it was only in secret, here, with him, that his truly human side was revealed. 

When he had finished his token literary effort; he was no great shakes at elocution but did his best, Sherlocks grip on Bee had loosened slightly and he looked more relaxed.The effort of crying for an hour had drained him. Maybe the poem had helped too. 

John kissed his cheek. 

He tried to sound brighter than he felt. 

'I wouldn't normally, Sherlock, but tonight I'm actually going to give you something to help you sleep. Me too, actually, exceptionally. Then, tomorrow, when we are rested, we can go out and do stuff. Then later on maybe, if you want to, we can look at the likes list and maybe start trying a few of them out? Would that sound ok?' 

Sherlock was apparently listening, because he nodded. 

John fetched the pills and some water, and they both swallowed their dose. Sleep came to them both like a black curtain drawing across their minds, and they lay still and untroubled as an owl hooted outside, answered by his mate, and the precious Bee lay clasped between them, illuminated by the moonlight slanting in from the window.


	12. Things get better

The next morning, Sherlock was almost a different man, much more his normal 'Sherlockian' self. He looked better too, healthier. He seemed to have shaken off the shadows of the previous day: it was as if they had never happened. Which was disconcerting. For a start, John had woken blearily to find Sherlock actually still in bed, although he was scrolling down on his phone. Bee was sitting on his chest. He leaned across and kissed John hard on the lips. 

'We're going shopping, Doctor Watson.'

'We are? What for? I've got the groceries ordered online?' 

'Not for groceries. For clothes. Mainly for you.' 

'Hang on a minute, Sherlock.' John was a little affronted. 'Whats wrong with what I wear? I like what I wear? Don't you?' 

'Some of it is acceptable. Most of it is rags. Durable, but rags. One can be stylish and hard wearing at the same time, you know. It's really very simple. I don't know why people dress so terribly.'

'It may be 'simple' for a trust fund babe like yourself, Mr Conspicuous Privilege, but not for the rest of us 'people' here on Planet Normal. I don't want to be your dress up doll, Sherlock. It really doesn't suit me.'

Sherlock began to sense he might have leapt into this one a bit too heartily, without selling it to John first.

'Very well. I won't insist on a complete wardrobe. But given that you very recently saved my life, I do insist on buying you at least two outfits....and some nightwear. So that's only two things.'

'Three, Sherlock, that's three.'

'Nooooo, John. You see but you do not observe. Your nightwear is a present to me. So two. Because I get to peel it off you. With my teeeeetttthhh.' 

John gulped. He thought he might have first shower this morning. In fact, he'd better have it now.

.............

After a quick breakfast at which John was pleased to note Sherlock ate a whole slice of toast, tiny morsel by tiny morsel, seemingly solely to please him, they got ready to go out. John wondered if despite the upset of the previous day, there had been some catharsis in letting out some of the detail of his ordeal with Lang that was ultimately helpful to Sherlock?

John had been most distressed by the details in Sherlocks trigger lists. Clearly they were items he associated with Lang. But they weren't all completely avoidable things in everyday life, they were too common and mundane. John wondered what would actually happen if they encountered a man in argyle socks with sandalwood aftershave. At least he knew it wouldn't actually be Lang himself.

He also wondered about the cases they assisted Scotland Yard on. He couldn't remember a child abuse case, now he thought about it? He wondered if that was coincidence, whether Sherlock refused such cases, or whether Lestrade had been told enough by Mycroft not to approach Sherlock with them. He would need to find out. Not now, but soon.

For now, he finished dressing. Sherlock was already dressed and ready, and muttering about John being so SLOW like a SNAIL, and John grinned as he trotted down the stairs after the swooping Belstaff and dark curls. 

As always, a cab miraculously appeared for Sherlock, and they hopped in. After Sherlock had barked 'Savile Row' at the driver, they settled back against the seat, thighs pressed together and below the cover of their coats, hands clasped. Today, John decided, was the first really bloody fantastic day for a long time. OK, he was still a bit crocked, and he and Sherlock were still dancing around one another, but right now, he wouldn't have swapped places with anyone. He turned to Sherlock and smiled happily at him. The smile he got in return could have lit up an eclipse. 

It didn't take long to reach the tailors. John noted with surprise that they weren't at Sherlocks favoured Spencer Hart. Instead they were at Huntsman. He looked askance at Sherlock. 

'I thought this would be more your style, John', Sherlock explained. Really strong for classic tailoring, especially countrywear. Not as sharp as Hart, more traditional. I think they will be to your liking.

Sherlock, for all his loyalty to another tailor, had clearly been here more than once before. Samuel greeted him like an old friend. Sherlock introduced John as his 'partner, John Watson'. John , standing nearby, nearly had a seizure. They hadn't discussed anything about their public persona, their public relationship, and it just sounded so weird. He was embarrassed, and went an unflattering shade of bright pink, with accessories of bright red ear tips. 

Samuel didn't appear to have noticed a thing. That was the joy of expensive, high class establishments, John was coming to notice. Nothing shocked them, nothing surprised them and nothing was too much trouble. He might have derided it in a chippy kind of way once, but right now he was grateful beyond words 

Sherlock explained that they were here for John today, although he had a hunt coat they had been altering for him and which he would be taking as he had been told it was ready. Samuel nodded, and came back with the hunting pink, which Sherlock slipped on. There had been nothing wrong with the woollen coat, which Sherlock apparently wore for riding to hounds (Who knew, thought John. There could be books written on what I do not know about this man), but the tailors had, for the third time in five years, needed to take in the measurements to reflect Sherlocks progressively shrinking frame as he had lost more and more weight. 

Sherlock stripped to his shirt and trousers to try the coat on, and the tailor looked slightly sad at the gaunt figure he presented. John decided to say something. 'We're hoping', he said, to the shop in general, 'that the next time we visit you, it will be to have this bloody jacket (John wasn't familiar with hunting terminology) taken OUT!' 

Samuel fixed John with an appraising eye, and then nodded and smiled approvingly at him. 'In that case, for you, sir, we are going to pull out all the stops on your outfits. You won't recognise yourself. Were you in the military, sir? Your deportment suggests it?' 

John nodded, amazed. 'Retired, but yes. Now I'm a doctor. And assistant to a madman.'

'Thats me, by the way', Sherlock added helpfully, twiddling with a display of evening gloves, although Samuel hadn't needed the help.......

An hour later, John didn't recognise himself. Sherlock had asked the tailors to make him two suits and had apparently been able to supply measurements. One, a black tie, for formal occasions. He didn't think he could carry off formal wear anything like Sherlock, and suspected that as with most shorter stockier men, white tie with a tail coat would be more flattering, but black tie was de rigeur for most formal occasions these days, so he could wear it more often than tails. 

Plus he always had his dress uniform. Sherlock hadnt seen him in that, although John was pretty sure he had looked at it in his wardrobe. There was something to look forward to, he thought. And then regretted it instantly, as a warm feeling flooded into his groin, just as an assistant tailor was starting to measure him for the suit trousers. He thought of algae, of slugs, of snot. Anything to quell that feeling. It worked. He breathed again.

The second suit was a classic single breasted number, in navy to match Johns dark blue eyes. The tailors, once they finished measuring John, brought out an eye-watering array of fabrics for him to select from. He was flummoxed and looked around at Sherlock for help. Sherlock, who had been lounging against a pillar looking like he owned the joint and flicking through a selection of blue scarves, smiled at him and sauntered over like a big cat. His almond eyes ranged over the fabrics, and then he pointed at two different samples. 

One was very classic, navy blue with a tiny white pinstripe. The other was slightly jazzier. The colour was darker, and slightly indigo-ish, and the pinstripe, small again, was pale pink. John like both of them though he wasn't sure he could carry off the second one. He said so. Sherlock smirked, and ignored him, and told the tailors they would take both, with two pairs of trousers for each. The classic navy in a heavyweight wool. 'Hardwearing, John, it will last you for YEARS, so it's really very economical!' And the indigo in a lighter weight weave, which Sherlock seemed especially keen on. 'This one for summer, John, this one will let the breeze circulate.' He murmured it in Johns ear, making it sound like they were buying crotchless knickers. But then, John reflected, Sherlock was threatening nightwear, so those were still a possibility. He stifled a giggle. This was all too surreal, so much so that he was letting it pass that Sherlock was already up to three outfits when they had agreed on a limit of two plus the nightwear.....

Thanking Samuel and his staff, and clutching the suit-carrier clad hunting coat (Sherlock had by now explained that the red woollen hunting jackets were always referred to as coats and the colour always referred to as pink, for reasons even he didn't seem to be able to explain), they hailed yet another cab and headed for Harrods. 

...........

John was getting peckish, by the time Knightsbridges conspicuous capitalism and the garish green and gold lights of Harrods appeared, so Sherlock reluctantly agreed to stop off for some food. They went for sushi after some discussion, which, John noted, Sherlock ate enthusiastically. Made for him, he thought, all those small bite sized portions, and the casual seating made for the ability to leave quickly without fuss; and made a mental note. It didn't take long to eat, either, which pleased Sherlock enormously.

Once full of sashimi and tamago nigiri, they made their way to the menswear department and thence to nightwear. Sherlock clearly knew his way around gents underwear and nightwear emporia, and made a beeline for one corner. 'Derek Rose', he proclaimed gleefully and waved a pair of luridly striped satin pyjama trousers in Johns face. 

John wasn't sure about the pattern on the wafting pair, but he did very much like the feel of the heavy satin. They were silky feeling but not slippery, and extremely well made. He thought they would last for years. There was a huge range of colours too, mainly stripes but some plain and checked. And there were lighter, cotton options too. Those looked supremely comfortable. He suspected that 'Derek' had been making these luxury jim jams for many years.

Sherlock seemed more amenable to John making his own choices here. He left his account card (or possibly Mycrofts? Was Mycroft in effect buying Johns PJs?) with the assistant, and abandoning John bumbling around the nightwear, wandered off down the large room. John wondered what he was up to but he had an armful of Derek Roses finest, and wasn't in a position to follow. 

Once he had chosen two pairs of the heavy and two of the cotton pyjamas, he placed them on the shop counter, wondering how he was going to sign for goods when the account card wasn't in his name, when he was rejoined by a smug looking Sherlock, who plonked a pile of stuff onto the counter. John eyed the mountain suspiciously. 

'Whats all that?' 

'Just a few underfrillies, John. I do require some underwear, you know. I can't go commando all the time, however much you beg for me to....' 

John gulped and glanced at the shop assistant. This time, unlike at Savile Row, the assistant was unable to suppress a slight smirk and a raised eyebrow. He quickly recovered and his face became a benign mask again. 

John reminded himself that he would probably never see the man again, and therefore it really didn't matter if the fellow thought he was prone to begging Sherlock to wear no underpants. 

He glared at Sherlock. 

'If you're quite finished, can we go home now ?' 

'Of course, John', Sherlock said smoothly. 

........

John was right to be suspicious, of course.

When they got back to Baker Street and unpacked, he found that in with the hunt coat were five very expensive looking shirts, all in Johns size, AND three ties, plus a pair of braces, and a leather belt.

Worse, in the mysterious underfrillies package, there was a single package of plain black knitted boxers for Sherlock, and the rest - all of it - was a garish assortment of varied and mainly revealing underwear - and all in Johns size. None in Sherlocks. There seemed to be a colour theme going on too. Everything was red. 

He tried to ask Sherlock about it, but the detective simply fobbed him off with 'Later, John' and carried on conducting some noxious experiment on the kitchen table. John was pretty sure the complicated experiment was deliberate. 

Right, thought John. You want to wind me up. Well, now I know what you like, Mister Holmes. Let's see how you cope with system overload. 

But then he hesitated. In truth he was in two minds about where to take this. John the good and caring man was unable to decide what to do.

The discussion they hadn't had about 'who went where' if and when they progressed from mutual masturbation to the full no holds barred hallo soldier sexy times was preying on his mind.

Fact: John was only used to penetrative sex with women, where he was the penetrator, or 'top'. Sherlock was only used to sex with men, and he was always the receiver or 'bottom'. 

So, John thought, the logical, in theory obvious, answer was for them to make things as familiar as possible, and for them to have sex, at least the first time, like that. And John could see the attraction, oh yes, very very much indeedy. His skills as a doctor meant he was pretty sure he would be able to find and positively worship Sherlocks prostate without too much problem. And he would feel more comfortable in that role. Not totally comfortable, the whole anal sex thing was a real psychological barrier, but he reasoned that it would be a lot less of an issue when it came to the moment.

But. A big but. Several big buts. John bullet-pointed them in his brain. 

\- All of Sherlocks experiences had been from rape or coercion. How did he really know what he wanted? He could be a natural top for all he knew? He couldn't know.  
\- Conversely, maybe replicating the set up of his past experiences could be actually a good thing, as maybe John could start to at least in a small way, overwrite them in a loving and caring way with preparation, reassurance and praise?  
\- Or would it be better to swap roles, so that there was no possibility of reminding Sherlock of past misery?  
\- Sherlock had expressed concern that John might really prefer women as sexual partners (to be fair the evidence of almost all of Johns sexual history would back that up). If John was the one always penetrating Sherlock, would that reinforce that concern, that Sherlock was for John playing the role of a quasi woman? That John wasn't really coming to terms with gay sex in its fullest extent, by not having Sherlock top him?  
\- Did John actually want to bottom? Could he contemplate that? Was he, however helpful it might be for Sherlock, ready for it? Would he ever be?  
\- Would John bottoming just actually stress Sherlock out way too much? Would he worry if John really wanted it or was just saying it to help Sherlock? Would he actually enjoy it? Would he be confident about whether he prepared John right?

Johns bullet points came to an end......His conclusion? He had no bloody idea. He was truly in a quandary. 

He decided there was only way to resolve this. He needed to talk to Sherlock. And maybe do a bit of going with the flow.....

In the end, it wasn't so much talking, as John writing down what he had mentally bullet pointed, clearing his throat and placing the sheet of paper on Sherlocks lap, covering up the article on bee hygiene and husbandry Sherlock had been reading on his laptop (he seemed to reserve stealing Johns laptop for the more nefarious activities, which annoyed John more than a bit).

Sherlock initially glanced down at the paper, as if to dismiss it as just another printout of something interesting and fluffy John had found on the web, which was probably dull as dull to Sherlocks higher mind. 

But then he started, and glanced back and looked again. Looked up at John, who sat down in his chair and nodded at Sherlock. And Sherlock started to read it properly. 

When he had finished, Sherlock sat back against the end arm of the sofa, and steepled his fingers. He seemed to be in one of his trances for a while. Then he raised his head, looked at John, and asked:

'Is this a briefing for group discussion or do you have a preference already and you just want to confirm my own view?'

John swallowed hard. 

'I would like to know your own view. From my perspective there are challenges and advantages to either option. And realistically I hope that we will end up both being comfortable with both, though naturally favouring one option is quite possible.'

Sherlock nodded. Then delivered his conclusion in the manner of an emeritus professor holding forth in Exam Schools at ten am on a wet Thursday morning in Michaelmas term to hungover undergraduates. 

'John, I think the inherent goodness of your being, and your concerns for me, are leading to you analysing this too much. 

I know that's rich of me to say, when I passed out the only time we've engaged in sexual activity to date, but what all this - he poked at the piece of paper - lacks - is any joy and spontaneity. 

I don't care who is putting their cock where, and we don't have to decide that, except if you don't want to bottom. We can decide if that's a red line. But if not, please let's just, oh, see who gets to the lube and condoms first? Fastest finger first? I know you are worried about it, and about me, but I'm more worried about your preferences. Let's remember who's the sort of virgin here. It should be me looking after you.

John looked embarrassed. 

'I was just trying to make sure we didn't end up doing things that weren't as good as they could be. To make sure it was good.' 

'I know. And it's a noble ambition. And it will be good. Maybe not all the time, you might pull a gun on me in your sleep, and I might recall something that trips me. But let's just concentrate on ticking off the like to try lists instead, and not this? 

John grinned.  
'Sounds good to me.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huntsman are Savile Row tailors, and I'm sure they would jump at the chance to bedeck the fine figure of John Watson  
> http://www.h-huntsman.com
> 
> Spencer Hart is well known for dressing Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> Derek Rose is indeed a longstanding purveyor of gorgeous men's (and ladies ) nightwear. Founded in 1926 by Lou Rose. I wear them in our Scottish winters. If you fancy yourself in some....(there's a nice pic of some Sherlock pants as well on the front page as I write..)  
> http://www.derek-rose.com


	13. The order of the Universe is altered in a small but significant way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major smut alert. Huzzah! Thoroughly good bloke, that Major Smut. Think he knew Sholto, back in the day.

So it was that four hours later, while Sherlock was showering, John Watson who is Not Gay quietly (and voluntarily) changed into the least distressing of the new red pants, these ones were fairly normal except more clingy and figure hugging than his normal pants, and of course they were very red; and then (also voluntarily) donned his army desert fatigues, adding his dog tags around his neck as a final touch. 

Which meant a pink and well scrubbed towel clad Sherlock, exiting from the bathroom, expecting perhaps a kiss and a cuddle from a still soul searching Doctor John, nearly had a seizure, when confronted by a very stern looking Captain Watson in full army fatigues, who eyed him with disdain. 

'Private Holmes?' 

'Uhhhhhhhmmm. Yes, Captain?' 

Sherlock fell straight into his role, his eyes glittering and gleaming. John thought he'd rarely seen him look more excited. The man nearly dropped to the floor. His towel might have, but it now, John noted, appeared to be gaining some additional support....

I've performed the inspection of your quarters, Private Holmes. And do you know what I found?

'No, Captain?' breathed Sherlock.

A wide array of frankly disgusting and perverted items. Underwear of the most revealing kind, and - objects. Do I need to list for you what those items and objects are? 

'Uh, no Captain. I'm sorry Captain. I don't know where they have come from.'

'Holmes. Don't lie to me. Your name is on the packaging. I'm going to need you to go through some of these items and explain to me EXACTLY what you propose to do with each of them, so I can decide the appropriate level of punishment for this misdemeanour. Do you understand, Private? '

'Yes Sir!'

'Right. Get in there, get on your knees and let's begin.'

By the time John had suppressed the smile that had sprung to his face, and went into the bedroom, Sherlock was kneeling by the bed, the towel still around his waist. The box of Lestrades goodies sat in front of him on the bed.

John stood behind him.

'First item', he ordered. 

Sherlock waved aloft what was probably the largest dildo John had ever seen in his life. He was flattered by Lestrades assessment, but frankly, even well endowed John did not mean John with an elephants leg between his balls. He removed the monster from Sherlocks grasp, and was rewarded by an epic pout. 

'Another, you sordid young man. Human proportions this time. The other one will serve as a door stop.'

Another was waved at him. This one looked more like it. 

'Confiscated. You'll get it back if you behave. I'm not telling you when or where you'll get it thought.'

Choose something else.'

There was a short pause. A strip of condoms and some unscented lube. John confiscated these two, though he still wasn't sure who was going to be making use of them. 

'Another.'

Now things got interesting, as Sherlock proffered a blindfold and ear plugs. John knew that must be for Sherlock as it was on his own red list.

One more item. Choose carefully. 

Sherlock hesitated and then handed back to John a paddle. 

John was a little taken aback. They hadn't even had vanilla sex yet, and Sherlock was apparently asking to be blindfolded, deafened, and beaten. 

He needed to think about this. But time had kind of run out for John. While he was trying to work out if Sherlocks preferences were freely made or a reflection of his poor sexual experiences, Sherlock had started to undo Johns belt. For a few seconds he tried to ignore it and keep thinking, but that came to a halt too, when dark curls bent over his mid section and hands released him from the confines of his combat trousers and pants. And he pretty much lost it completely when those hands started to stroke him and palm his cock. 

He was grateful for the fact there was a corner post to Sherlocks bed, and hung onto it as those long fingers, those large hands worked away at him and those lips kissed him everywhere on his chest and stomach. 

John decided that he was supposed to be the one in control here. 

'Taking "matters" into your own hands, Private?', he barked, actually removing his cock from Sherlocks hands (who thankfully gave up without a fight and stood before him, eyes lowered).

'Listen to me, Holmes. We are going to use some of your chosen items. You need a safe word. What will it be?'

'Red, sir.'

Very well, Private. Red for stop now, yellow for slow down. Green for go. Do you understand?'

'Yes sir. Green. Go. Sir. If you wouldn't mind, Sir.'

John looked amused at the fact that Sherlocks towel had slipped off and he was now totally naked, revealing that he was already completely fully hard and actually leaking. This role play was clearly meeting with approval. That, and the eagerness in Sherlocks voice, gave John confidence to continue.

'Kneel on the bed.'

Sherlock knelt down in front of John, who took the blindfold from the pile of selected items. He secured it over Sherlocks eyes, tying it securely at the back. He then handed Sherlock the ear plugs, and let him secure those in his ears. 

Johns eyes raked over Sherlocks long, lithe but surprisingly toned body. There was plushness, here, but only in his (delectable edible) backside. The rest of him was still too thin but willowy and endless. His bruises were starting to fade. He was at once both assertively male, and gorgeously indefinable, and the sight of him made John, normally a confident man in his attractiveness, but always in the earthling spectrum, wonder what this ethereal creature saw in him. Johns erection was now becoming painfully uncomfortable. It was full of self confidence. 

John gently maneouvred Sherlock so that he was lying on his back on the bed, slightly propped against the headboard. He imagined Sherlock thought he was going to get straight on with things. But John didn't think Sherlock had ever experienced proper lovemaking, and he wanted to change that. He wanted this to be as unlike the film of the alley behind the nightclub, as he could make it.

John remembered that bondage was a Sherlock like, and though he didn't want to go for Lestrades full kit, he picked out some smooth rope and quickly made two loops, taking Sherlocks hands and securing them, then tying them to the headboard. Sherlock even with the blindfold on clearly understood what John was doing and was smiling approvingly. John did the knots loosely; this was new to Sherlock and he might not like it even if he thought he would. It would be simple for him to escape the binds if he wanted to. But John didn't think he would want to. Not by his reactions to date. He wasn't going to use the paddle today, though. Sherlocks existing injuries were still too raw. Nor the dildo, he was saving that for another day.

John started by removing his own clothes completely, and then he crouched by Sherlocks side, drinking in the sight of the pale ghostly figure stretched out and helpless on the bed. Helpless but smiling slightly.

John found some massage oil by the side of the bed, which he assumed Sherlock had used for his intermittent perfunctory wanking sessions. He wondered what Sherlock had thought about, when he had masturbated in this room. Did he think of John? John decided he would make sure that he would in future....

He took the massage oil and warmed some on his hands. Then, he started to use it to work on Sherlock. He started with his shoulders, a fairly benign location. But it was quickly clear that his subject was extremely sensitive to touch, possibly enhanced by the blindfold and earplugs. John had barely reached his nipples before Sherlock was groaning and his cock was freely leaking precum. 

Johns own cock reacted to the noises Sherlock was making. 'Christ', thought John, 'This is really not going to last very long.' In one way that seemed a shame, but then he concluded it didn't matter. It didn't fit in with his original long and gentle lovemaking strategy, but he was flexible....

He worked his way more quickly. Sherlock, unable to move his arms or touch his prick, was writhing around on the bed, so much so that in the end, John straddled his legs to hold him still and allow John to get to the main event. 

He decided that they would stick to familiar patterns and started to massage Sherlocks cock, then his balls, making him moan. And then, while stroking him, Johns other hand reached gradually back, and gently massaged around his entrance. He took a good helping of lube and warmed it, then started massaging that just around his hole, at the same time adding some to his other hand working on Sherlocks cock. 

By this time, the detective was almost beyond speech and was making small incoherent sounds. John quickly slipped one finger into Sherlock, up to the knuckle. Christ, it felt tight, and John pursed his lips and and worked it in and out. A second finger quickly followed and by hooking his fingers a little, John searched for and hit the prostate. Sherlock, who could neither see or hear what John was doing, twitched violently. 

'Oh my God. More', he gasped. Sweat was plastered to his brow and a trickle ran down from his brow into his blindfold.

John, keen to properly prep Sherlock, added a third finger. He had stopped working Sherlocks cock, as he worried now that he would come too soon. Once satisfied with his handiwork, and judging Sherlock to be ready, he removed his fingers gently, which led to a whine from the marble vision laid out before him. Swiftly, and with shaking hands, he ripped open a condom packet and sheathed his prick. 

'This is it', he thought. He was nervous. He couldn't believe he was actually here, doing this, with Sherlock. He wasn't small down there, and he'd never done this. And it wasn't like the purpose designed anatomy of a woman. This could go wrong. He hoped he'd done enough prep. He hoped this would be good. Would it? Please let it be, please.....

John lined himself up. Taking one of Sherlocks legs, he hooked it over his good shoulder. There was no use pretending he could do it with the other one. He reached up and removed one earplug. 

'Sherlock, are you ready? are you happy? Do you really want this? ' 

Sherlock answered with a thick and growling voice. 'John, I want this, I want you. In. Me. Now. Please fuck me. Please, Sir. Now. Sir.'

John smiled, though Sherlock couldn't see it. He stroked Sherlocks cheek, replaced the ear plug, lined up again and pushed forward. He was transfixed as he watched his penis move and Sherlocks by now purplish cock twitch and leak freely, as he breached its owners body. He stared down at the sight. 

He met resistance, and he had to push hard. When he sprang through the first ring of muscle he was suddenly overwhelmed by a mixture of physical sensation and emotional release. His cock was overwhelmed too, and he had to fight hard not to slam forwards. Instead, he concentrated hard, withdrew a small way and then pushed again, a little further, repeating the motion and becoming sheathed ever further into Sherlocks body with each tiny thrust. 

It was almost unbearable. 

'Christ, Sherlock, it's...you're....so tight....Christ!!' He was sweating freely now. 

This second swearing was as Sherlock moved his hips slightly, which seemed to clench Johns prick, giving him all kinds of sensations which tingled around his entire body. He'd made love to a lot of women. It was nothing like this. This was so different. Tighter, more intimate, more direct. Sexier, in a way. John had never been so turned on.

Sherlock started to get impatient with Johns polite and courtly thrusts.

'John, please fuck me now. Stop being polite. Be the army man, not the doctor. Use that bayonet.'

John needed no further encouragement, being as he was at the very limits of his self control and not wanting to come before Sherlock was peaking. Sherlocks jibes decided the issue.

He withdrew back until he was almost dislodged completely, then took a deep breath - and slammed into Sherlock in one thrust, fully seating himself so that his balls were pressed against Sherlocks plush buttocks. Moved back again and thrust hard. He began an endless merciless onslaught, gripping Sherlock by the hips, covering up those fading bruises with new ones, Johns ones, slamming into him again and again. He was out of control now, all thoughts of gentleness gone, with Sherlocks blessing. He bit Sherlock, hard on the shoulder, on his chest, on his belly. Rained kisses all over Sherlocks skin. Licked that skin and savoured the taste of sweat and sex and Sherlock.

Sherlocks head was twisting from side to side. He was muttering to himself 'John oh John, JOHN', and John could see he was getting close to the edge. He sped up, if that were possible, Sherlock now holding on with his bound hands to the headboard of the bed, John gathering his arms underneath Sherlock and pounding into him like an animal, harder and faster and he could feel his balls tighten and knew that this was the time, this was their time, and he grunted 'Now. Sherlock. Now. Come now.' And he heard a shout from what seemed like far away and a wailing cry as Sherlocks orgasm hit, and then everything tightened so so tight about him and clamped him and he came like a fucking rocket with three last thrusts, pulsing and pulsing into the condom encased by Sherlocks being, and collapsing down onto the sweat and oil soaked body, his softening penis still inside Sherlock: reaching down to gently remove it complete with condom, tie it and hurl it to the bin, before collapsing down by Sherlocks side, too sensitive to touch except to remove the blindfold and ear plugs, untie the hands and rain kisses all over that exquisite satiated body. 

As he did so, John searched Sherlocks face. They had just had sex. Loving sex. Not something Sherlock had done before. Did it feel different to him, than the miserable coupling John had seen, or the rapes he had experienced as a child? John searched that face for clues, and prayed to whatever was Up There that tonight was a landmark for the right reasons, and not the wrong, bad ones. He knew it had been mind blowing for him. How had it been for Sherlock? 

Sherlock was lying back on the bed, his head almost at the bed head, his eyes almost closed. His wrists were marked where the ropes had been, his body showing the scars of his most recent torture, his bullet wound to the chest, and he looked drained.

Slowly, he reached down and drew John up, so that their faces were on a level. He opened his eyes fully, and John saw they were filled with tears. 

'Sherlock. Was it okay? I know I'm not used to it, but please tell me if you are upset. We can change stuff, not do stuff, if so. Talk to me, please.'

Sherlock looked at him as if he was a madman.  
'John. No. It was...I can't explain. I don't know how to. It was - amazing, John. 

Not to be scared, or angry, not to be in pain....just to feel you inside me, you, John, moving inside me, and to know every second that it was ok, it was safe, it was you there the whole time, you were with me; and to have you for myself, properly, to know that this was us, doing this, Oh God John. Don't leave me, please, John, not today, not ever. 

Please stay with me, and be with me, and please please fuck me everywhere you can think of. Mycrofts car, Lestrades office, the entrance hall downstairs, the kitchen table, this bed, your bed, the park, the Palace, the fucking Horseguards Parade, John. Bend me over the railings on the Mall. On top of the London Eye. Just please don't leave me. Don't ever leave me? John? 

With that, Sherlock held Johns face in his hands and rained sweet, salty kisses all over. Their foreheads met together, their bodies sticky and sweaty and oily and the exhaustion of their still healing bodies kept them like that for several minutes before John had recovered from being close to tears himself, and tried to peel away. 

'I'm not going anywhere, just to get a flannel. To clean us up, ok?' 

Mainly Sherlock to clean up, to be fair, he had the original helping of massage oil, most of his own come, now drying, and he looked thoroughly ravished and debauched. John, who had got off lightly in comparison, only affected by an element of sticky transference, stopped in the doorway on his way back from the bathroom. The room was in shadow, and Sherlocks body was stretched across the bed, limbs thrown everywhere. 

'I could take a photo of you like that, you know', he said. 'So fucking sexy. I could blow it up to poster size and paste copies of it on the walls of Underground stations, so that everyone in London knows that this is what their ice cold celebrity detective looks like when he's getting it. From me.'

Sherlock looked at him from under long dark lashes. 

'Only if I can wear the dog tags, and bite them for the photo.'

John choked slightly and dived back to the bed.


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried when I wrote this part. I hope you might too. In a good way.

They were blessed with a visitation from Mycroft next morning. 

He might have removed his cameras, and he was genuinely only here now, because he was back from his foreign duties, but his unerring sixth sense was clearly switched on. 

Despite the fact that Sherlock was peering down a microscope, fully dressed, and John was reading the paper; when they both looked up (Mycroft never knocked, just adjusted the door knocker to annoy Sherlock), they were glanced at briefly and then greeted with the biggest smirk this side of the Severn River Crossing. 

'I see the toxic waste dump of an apartment has been magically transformed into a sultry love nest? John, I congratulate you. My brother, after other recent sexual encounters has resembled an alley cat who has lost a fight and patches of his fur. Smelly and slinking and miserable. 

But today I see my brother sleek and purring like a pampered Persian. His coat is shining and his demeanour positively radiant. Do just be careful of his claws, they are sheathed but require clipping periodically by a determined and skilled person.

That person is clearly you, Doctor Watson. I wonder what your secret? Many have tried to seduce my brother, many others have fancied themselves to be in love with him. What makes you different?'

John was pretty riled up by now, he knew Mycroft was being deliberately provocative and just winding him up, enjoying the moment, but he wasn't really in the mood. 

He spoke his mind.

'You know why it's different. 

The difference, Mycroft, is that I care about Sherlock. About all of him. I care about his work, about his health, and about his heart. Your way of protecting his heart was to seal it away, but all that did was to seal in the terrible things that happened to him so that was all he had to draw on. With the best of intentions, I know, and also your support was limited because of his challenging behaviour, but still.

Well, that's changed. He has new experiences to enjoy, and new memories to lay down, and new knowledge to learn. But you know all of this. 

And I know that behind all the snark, you love your brother very very much, but you don't ever tell him that. He's a fragile soul, brittle and easily broken, and he needs to be told that he is loved. Every single day, he needs that. To be told - that.'

........

John realised the room had gone quiet. 

Then Sherlock spoke. His deep voice was quiet, and hesitant. 

'You haven't told me that, John. That you love me?' 

John looked down at his feet. 

He heard Mycroft make swift excuses, with murmurs of 'fine, will text later', and then they were alone once more. 

'Nor have you?', he said. 'To be fair?'

Sherlock fidgeted.

John held his breath, and then breathed.

'But I do. Yes, I do. Love you. With all my heart and every part of my being, I do love you Sherlock. I think I always have, really? And it frightens me. I loved someone before, or thought I did, and they destroyed me. And your troubles, and mine too, come to that; it frightens me that they will destroy us before we can build foundations strong enough to withstand them. 

But I love you, so so much. More than anything. I want us to live together, and grow old together. And I want us to die together, whether that's on a case that goes badly wrong, or whether that's when we're so old and things start to be not so good. I don't want to be left behind. I want us to go together. I want to feel your last breath in my mouth and I need every breath of yours in my mouth; we wasted so many stupid fucking years breathing alone.'

John came to a stuttering halt.  
He found himself in Sherlocks arms, and wrapped in those long arms that held him so tight, so tight. 

Sherlock, when John looked up, was smiling down at him with such tenderness and aching pain and love that John really didn't need to hear the words from his lips.  
But in the days and week and months and the years and even the decades to come, especially in the inevitable bad times, he remembered that he did hear them, and the sound of them, the pattern and rhythm was burned onto his soul. 

'I love you, John. I have loved you since the moment you killed the cabbie to save me, a man you had known for a day, and then stood there like nothing had happened. I turned away from my feelings, because I was too stupid to accept that I loved you, and too hurt by my past to be able to handle the emotions you provoked. And I was too worried that you were straight and would reject me and end our friendship, which I couldn't risk.

I don't know how we work this. I don't know how to 'do' relationships. I've never had one. You're going to have to tell me. 

I don't know whether it will work, and if it doesn't, I still don't know what will happen to us and our friendship. And that scares me, as I would take friendship over a relationship that founders and then nothing. 

But for now, I am here and you are here and I love you John Watson, more than my life itself. And I would, could, never live without you. You know that. I have no fear of death, only of life without you. I could not, I will not, continue to breathe without you.'

And in each others arms again they kissed and petted and stroked faces and hair and made plans and drank each other in.

...........

And later, much later, they would lie once again in that bed, which was now theirs, and John would lower that final barrier and their sex this time would be new to both of them, and Sherlock would take John to pieces little by little and then he would take John, and John would feel Sherlock inside his very being, and feel nothing except oneness and release and overwhelming love and they would come together in an explosion of passion. And Sherlock would hold John as he came in John and they would look at each other and gasp 'You. Are. Mine' as the waves of sensation rolled over them, over and over and over......

And then John would place his army dog tags around Sherlocks neck, and Sherlock would leave the bed, and on his way back from fetching a warm flannel to gently clean himself and his lover, he would go into the living room, and take the skull from the mantelpiece, and open a cupboard, and shut that skull away; because William Sherlock Scott Holmes didn't need to look at it any more. 

And the following day, his lover would see that circle of dust free shelf, and smile, and he would burn the vile pictures Mycroft had sent him, because he didn't need those any more, either. 

And beloved Bee would stay on their pillows, a silent witness to two damaged souls who found that together, their jagged pieces made a whole, a smooth, exquisite whole that radiated beauty and peace and hope.

........

But that was later. Our story jumps ahead. Now, back here, right now, as these men kissed, and murmured for the first time ever their words of love, Mycroft, who had left the flat but not the building, as he was currently sitting on one of the seventeen stairs leading up to 221B; decided that he had now heard enough, to know that his brother had chosen his path to the future. 

It was the path of sentiment, and love. It was not a path Mycroft himself would choose, and not one he would have recommended for Sherlock. For him, the price of loneliness was worth paying, to avoid the extremes of high and low a life of involvement and sentiment involved. He had been convinced that Sherlocks terrible suffering made this even more advisable for him. 

But he accepted now, that given that this was the route Sherlock had now taken, he was satisfied that his beloved brother was both alive, which was not always certain; and he was in the (literal) hands of the only man in the world who Mycroft believed could ever love him, and protect him, as much as he, Mycroft had. And since no one loved William, or indeed Sherlock, as much as Mycroft Holmes, this was high praise indeed.

He wondered if he would be lonelier still, now that Sherlock had less need of him. He acknowledged that in the absence of the close relationship they had before Sherlocks terrible eleventh summer, the surveillance and picking up from gutters had proved a slightly addictive alternative for him. Kept Sherlock forcibly close. 

Was he worried John Watson would be hostile, would keep Sherlock from replacing the relationship of dependence with one of a closer brotherly bond like they should have had the last twenty five years? 

He decided that John Watson would not do this, though he, Mycroft, might need to work at their relationship. John Watson was a good man, and he loved Sherlock. If Sherlock wanted to be friends with Mycroft, John would not stop it. As long as he felt Mycroft was behaving acceptably. Sometimes, he didn't think that, Mycroft knew. They would have to start afresh.

He worried more, that Sherlock would abandon him to arms length as he had with their parents. That he had John now, and didn't need Mycroft. That was something only Sherlock could decide. 

Mycroft twizzled his umbrella tip on the polished wood of the stairs. These wide Georgian elm boards were very fine, he mused. More water resistant than other woods like oak, and with such an attractive burr. Impossible to get nowadays, with Dutch Elm Disease ravaging the country's elms to near extinction. Things of beauty were ephemeral, and worth appreciating all the more because of that. 

His phone vibrated. Anthea-not-Anthea. The car was here for him. 

He stood, dusted off his jacket, and walked slowly and quietly down the stairs. His work here was done. He was needed, still needed, elsewhere. 

As he closed the door of 221B, now home to lovers, he unconsciously tipped the door knocker back to his preferred position. Some traditions should remain, he thought, as his car drove almost silently away, back to the empty and austere grandeur he called home.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Fragile Life of Sherlock S Holmes [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797533) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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